Orfantal finished brushing down his horse and then led it over to the rope corral. He watched for a time as the other mounts greeted the nag, wondering if they but felt sorry for it, and then he made his way over to the cookfires, where the strangers had drawn up.
He saw servants unloading charcoal and dung chips, which were then carried over to Haral’s wagons, and bundles of food now crowded the cookfires. A highborn girl was standing beside Haral, dressed in a thick midnight blue cloak of some waxed material, and as Orfantal approached he saw that her dark eyes were upon him.
Haral cleared his throat. ‘Orfantal, kin of Nerys Drukorlat, this is Sukul of the Ankhadu, sister of Captain Sharenas Ankhadu, spearwielder of Urusander’s Legion at the Battle of Misharn Plain.’
Orfantal eyed the round-faced girl. ‘Are you a hostage like me?’
‘A guest,’ Haral explained before she could reply, as if embarrassed by Orfantal’s question and fearful that she would take offence. ‘Lesser Families exchange hostages only with their equals. Lady Hish Tulla is of the Greater Families and powerful in the court.’
The expression on Sukul’s face had not changed.
Orfantal was unable to judge her age. Perhaps she was a year older than him, or a year younger. They were of similar height. Something in her eyes made him nervous. ‘Thank you,’ he now said to her, ‘Sukul Ankhadu, for this gift of food and company.’
The girl’s brows lifted. ‘I doubt you learned such manners from your grandmother,’ she said, derision in her tone. ‘She showed no honour to Urusander’s Legion.’
Haral looked uncomfortable, but at a loss, so he said nothing.
Orfantal shrugged. ‘I did not know that my grandmother has dishonoured your family. I am sorry that she did, as you have shown yourself to be generous in Lady Tulla’s absence from the Hold. For myself, I still thank you.’
There was a long moment of silence, and then Sukul tilted her head. ‘Orfantal, you have much to learn. But for this night, I will take advantage of your innocence. Together, we shall leave the bitterness of our elders in their restless hands. Your kind words have touched me. Should the need arise in your life for an ally, you may call upon Sukul Ankhadu.’
‘When I am a great warrior,’ Orfantal replied, ‘I shall welcome you to my side.’
She laughed at his reply and then gestured towards the nearest cookfire. ‘Join me then, Orfantal, and we shall eat like soldiers upon the march, and woe to the enemy awaiting us.’
Her laughter had made him uncertain, but the invitation was like a spark to dry tinder, as if she had unerringly set fire to his imagined future, and would readily take her place in it. He looked upon her most carefully now, imagining her visage – older, stronger – wrought in bold thread. A face to one side of the hero’s face; a companion of years, loyal and sure, and as they strode past Haral and Gripp Orfantal felt that face, smiling and flushed, sink into his soul.
They would indeed be great friends, he decided. And somewhere still ahead, hazy and vague but dark with promise, awaited their betrayer.
* * *
They left the two of them to their own fire, and at first this had perturbed Orfantal. He was used to Gripp’s company and thought of the old man as a wise uncle, or a castellan. But this was a matter of blood and purity, and although the Ankhadu line was lesser, still it measured far above that of Haral, Gripp and the others.
There was nothing in what Orfantal had seen while in the company of these guards and traders to make clear this distinction in class. Roughness of manner did not suffice, as it was, in Orfantal’s mind, the way of the road for all travellers; and even Haral’s brutal treatment of Narad befitted the man’s insubordination.
But when Sukul seated herself – on a saddle-like stool brought out from the Hold’s wagon – opposite him, and servants arrived bearing pewter plates on which steaming food was heaped, along with tankards of watered wine – in place of the ale being offered the others of the caravan – Orfantal was startled to realize that he had grown so accustomed to his companions on this journey that he had begun to see himself as no different from them, an orphan in their company, well liked by all and, indeed, one of them.
The sudden deference was unwanted, a reminder of all the rules of behaviour that made no sense; and watching how Sukul responded to it with such natural ease, all of his grandmother’s impatient lessons returned home, unwelcome as a switch to his back.
‘Orfantal,’ said Sukul as she picked at her meal, ‘tell me about yourself. But first, to save you time, this is what I know. Kin to Nerys Drukorlat, widow of the wars – she has a daughter, does she not? Once a hostage to House Purake. But of her family beyond her own estate, I have heard little. Indeed, it was my belief that the bloodline was almost extinct, like an ancient, once proud tree, with but a single branch left bearing leaves. You must have come far, then, from some half-forgotten brood at the very edge of Kurald Galain.’
Orfantal had been well versed in the tale he was to tell. But Sukul would be his companion, and as such there would be truth between them. ‘Nerys Drukorlat is my grandmother in truth,’ he said to her. ‘My mother is Sandalath Drukorlat, who now dwells in Dracons as a hostage. My father died in the wars, at a great battle where he saved the lives of many famous highborn.’
The girl paused in her eating and regarded him steadily. ‘Surely,’ she said after a moment, her voice low, ‘Nerys had for you a different story to tell.’
‘Yes. But it made no sense. I don’t know why I am supposed to pretend that I had a different mother and father. My mother is very kind to me and tells me many stories about my father. Theirs was a love only death could silence.’
‘With whom will you be hostage, Orfantal?’
‘To the Citadel itself, and the line of the sons and daughters of Mother Dark.’
She set her plate down, most of her supper untouched, and then reached for her wine. ‘And all arrangements have been made for this? I am surprised – would Mother Dark now claim for her closest followers – her sons and daughters – the unity and honour of a Greater House? What will the highborn make of that, I wonder? Bloodlines shall be crossed, and all for a cult of worship.’
Her words confused him. It was clear now that she was much older than him. ‘I think, yes, it is all arranged.’
Her eyes flicked back to him, as intent as ever. She drank down half her tankard and held it out to be refilled. ‘Orfantal, are we in truth now friends?’
He nodded.
‘Then listen well to my advice. In a few days you will arrive in Kharkanas, and be delivered into the keeping of those who dwell in the Citadel. There will be teachers, and you will feel plucked one way and then another, and even those into whose care you have been given, well, they will be busy with their own tasks and interests. It may be, Orfantal, that you will find life lonely.’
He stared at her. Would they not all gather to welcome him, as they had his mother? What of Anomander Rake? And Andarist and Silchas Ruin?
‘Seek out Lady Hish Tulla – she is there now. Before you leave tomorrow morning, I will send a servant down with a message that I will write to her, which you must carry upon your person, and then give into her hand.’
‘Very well. But you are not a hostage. You are a guest – why are you a guest in Tulla Hold?’
Sukul made a sour face. ‘My sister has a reputation in court, and our mother saw me upon the same wayward path. She endeavoured to prevent that. There was an old friendship, forged on the field of battle … well, my mother made a request and Lady Hish accepted. I am in her charge, being educated above my station, and under the protection of Hish Tulla – who herself has known the wayward life, only to have stepped back from its sordid path.’ She drank more wine and then smiled. ‘Oh dear, how I have confused you. Heed only this, then: blood is not the only loyalty in the world. Two spirits, matched of vision, can reach across any divide. Remember that, Orfantal, for on this night such a friendship has begun, between us.’
; ‘This,’ said Orfantal, ‘has been a wonderful night.’
‘Hish Tulla seeks to forge the same friendship, the same loyalty, between the highborn and the officers of Urusander’s Legion. By this means she seeks peace in Kurald Galain. But I tell you this: many officers, like my own sister, have no interest in peace.’
Orfantal nodded. ‘They have fought in wars,’ he said.
‘They sting to slights, both real and imagined.’
‘Will you visit me in Kharkanas, Sukul Ankhadu?’
She drained her wine. ‘If I am to stand at the side of a great warrior, why, I am sure we shall meet again, Orfantal. Now, finish your wine – you sip like a bird, when you should be filling your belly.’
‘I wish,’ said Orfantal, ‘that I had a sister. And that she was you.’
‘Better we be friends than siblings, Orfantal, as perhaps you shall one day discover. Upon friends you can rely, but the same cannot always be said for siblings. Oh, and one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘That tale your grandmother would have you tell? Make it a truth in your mind – forget all you have told me this night. No one else must hear the truth as I have. Promise me this, Orfantal.’
‘I promise.’
‘The older you get,’ she said, in a tone that made her seem eye to eye with his grandmother, ‘the more you discover the truth about the past. You can empty it. You can fill it anew. You can create whatever truth you choose. We live long, Orfantal – much longer than the Jheleck, or the Dog-Runners. Live long enough and you will find yourself in the company of other liars, other inventors, and all that they make of their youth shines so bright as to blind the eye. Listen to their tales, and know them for the liars they are – no different from you. No different from any of us.’
Orfantal’s head was swimming, but in challenge to her words he heard a faint voice of protest, rising from deep inside. He disliked liars. To lie was to break loyalty. To lie, as the ghost of every dead hero knew, was to betray.
The night was sinking into confusion, and he felt very alone.
* * *
‘I am a great believer in invention,’ said Rise Herat to the small girl beside him. Glancing down at her he added, ‘But do be careful. It’s a long fall from here and I would not survive the displeasure of the entire Hust clan should harm befall you.’
Seeming intent on ignoring his warning, Legyl Behust pulled herself up and on to the merlon. Feet dangling behind her, she leaned out, her face flushed with excitement, her eyes wide with wonder.
Rise took hold of the nearest ankle and held tight. ‘I indulge you too much,’ he said. ‘But look well upon all that you see. The city holds its back to the river behind us, and indeed to the Citadel itself. We need not concern ourselves with those settlements upon the south shore, where you will find the factories, infernal with the stinks of industry. Hides into leather, the butchering of pigs, cattle and whatnot. The crushing of bones into meal for the fields. The throwing of clay and the deliveries each day from the charcoal burners. All the necessities of maintaining a large population.’
‘I don’t want to look there!’
‘Of course you don’t. Better these finer structures, this sad attempt at order—’
‘But where are the spirits of the forest? Where is the forest? You talked about forests!’
He pointed. ‘There, that dark line to the north. Once, it was much closer.’
‘It ran away?’
‘Think of Kharkanas as a beast crawled up from the river. Perhaps to sun itself, or perhaps only to glower at the world. Think of the long-tailed, beaked turtles – the ones the river folk bring to the markets. Gnarled and jagged shells, a savage bite and thick muscles upon the long neck. Claws at the ends of strong limbs. Skin tough as armour. An ugly beast, Legyl, foul of temper and voracious. Hear its hiss as you draw close!’
She was squirming about on the narrow stone projection. ‘Where’s its eyes? I don’t see its eyes!’
‘But dear, we are its eyes. Here atop the Old Tower. We are the city’s eyes just as we are the world’s eyes, and that is a great responsibility, for it is only through us that the world is able to see itself, and from sight is born mystery – the releasing of imagination – and in this moment of recognition, why, everything changes.’
She sagged back. ‘But I don’t want to be its eyes, Master Rise.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t know what I’m seeing.’
He helped her regain her feet. ‘That’s fine, because none of us do. Brush the grit from your clothes. You venture into a difficult area, this idea of “knowing”.’
‘I wasn’t going to ever fall,’ she said, slapping at the stains on her tunic. ‘Of course not. I had your foot.’
‘Ever.’
‘And you can be sure you may rely upon me, Legyl,’ said Rise Herat. ‘So, as you say, there are some things that can well be known. But tell me – did not the city seem alive to you?’
‘I could see everyone. In the streets. They were tiny!’
Taking her hand, he led her back to the trap door and the steep steps leading down to the level below. ‘Fleas from the mud, mites and ticks burrowing into the hide.’
‘It was buildings and stuff. Not a river turtle at all.’
‘I have shown you the city and to look upon the city is to look upon your own body, Legyl. And this Citadel … why, the eyes are set in the head and the head upon the body. This morning, you became the Citadel’s eyes. Is your body not flesh and bone? Is it not a place of heat and labour, the beat of your heart, the breath you draw? Such is wise Kharkanas.’
At the bottom of the steps she pulled free her hand. ‘Cedorpul’s a better teacher than you. He makes sense. You don’t.’
He shrugged. ‘I forget the narrow perch of the child’s mind. In pragmatism there is comfort, yes?’
‘I’m going to play in my room now.’
‘Go on,’ he said, gesturing her along.
The temple’s lone hostage scampered off, down the inner stairs to the next floor below. Rise Herat hesitated, and then turned about and made his way back up to the tower’s platform. His morning ritual, this private contemplation of Kharkanas, might still be salvaged. Cedorpul had ambushed him in the corridor outside his chambers, thrusting this young student into his care. Hasty words regarding lessons and then the young priest was gone.
More rumours, more agitation to rush up and down the hallways of the Citadel. The sanctuary of the Old Tower was Rise Herat’s place of strength amidst all this nonsense. Instead, he found himself left in charge of a girl he saw as almost feral and possibly simple-minded, so vast the temple’s neglect. Ever passed on to the next, scores of teachers and no lessons ever returned to, Legyl’s was an education of fragments, delivered in haste and out from airs of distraction. When he had looked down at her, however, he had seen sure intelligence in the large eyes staring back up at him.
As the court historian, he decided that history would be the lesson he delivered. Such ambitions proved short-lived, as her breathless scatter of comments and observations left him confused. She listened to his words as one might listen to a songbird in the garden, a pleasant drone in the background. Whatever she took in seemed randomly selected; but perhaps it was that way with all children. He rarely had any contact with them, and generally preferred it that way.
Rise looked out over Kharkanas. Thin smoke drifted above the cityscape, not yet lifting to the height of the tower. It softened all that lay beneath it, and he wondered at the loss he always felt when venturing into a vista, the way the vastness narrowed down to the immediate; the sudden insistence of details near to hand. There had been a time, a generation or so back, when the city’s artists had taken to the countryside, to paint landscapes, and to Rise Herat’s mind these paintings achieved what reality could not. A promise of depth and distance, yet one in which the promise remained sacred, for neither depth nor distance could be explored. To draw closer was to see only th
e brush strokes and dried paint upon the board; and with them the surrendering of the illusion.
Details cluttered the mortal mind, blinded it to the broader sweeps of history. He’d thought to reach this observation in his lesson with Legyl. It might have been, he now considered, that she was still rather too young for such concepts. But then, it was equally likely that age had little to do with comprehension. He need only descend the tower and plunge into the frantic world of the court to witness the same obsessions with detail and immediacy that sent Legyl Behust scurrying this way and that. If anything, he was, in making the comparison, being unkind to the child.
No matter. Thoughts unspoken left no scars upon others. The fate of the inner landscape of the one doing the thinking was, of course, entirely different. This was the procession, he knew, of the failing mind, and in that failure was found a place where many unspoken thoughts came to rest; and it was a place of prejudice, hatred and ignorance.
That said, he knew that he was a poor teacher. He wove his histories as if they were inventions, disconnected and not relevant. Worse, he preferred the sweeping wash of colour to obsessive detail, ineffable feeling over intense analysis, possibility over probability; he was, by any measure, a dreadful historian.
He could see a shadow upon the city below, not thrown down by the smoke; nor did it come from a cloud as the sky was clear. This was Mother Dark’s indrawn breath, stealing the light from the world. What, he wondered, did she do with it? Was it as the priestesses said? Did she devour it, feed upon it? When light goes, where does it go?
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.
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