Forge of Darkness

by Steven Erikson

  ‘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.

  They watched her walking onward for a dozen heartbeats.

  ‘Warlock,’ murmured Caplo, ‘say nothing in the certainty of being unheard.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Resh answered. ‘But these matters – of lineage and blood – I see no advantage in her knowing them.’

  ‘To firm her footing, I should think.’

  ‘Nothing more?’

  Caplo shrugged. ‘The age of kings and queens is past, warlock. The lesson was lost on no one. By love aggrieved she cast the realm into chaos. This shall not happen again.’

  ‘We should have left the Azathanai to the damned Wardens,’ R
esh said.

  This time, Caplo could not but agree. ‘She nears the gate,’ he observed.

  They rode to catch up, avoiding the puddles.

  * * *

  Atop the Old Tower, Cedorpul, Endest Silann and Rise Herat watched the tiny figure of the woman walk towards the Citadel’s City Gate. As the Shake escort, momentarily halted, now rode to catch up to her, Cedorpul grunted and said, ‘That is Warlock Resh and Caplo Dreem. A curious pairing for this formality.’

  Rise Herat glanced across at the young priest. ‘Of course the warlock should be in attendance,’ he replied. ‘The river has breached its banks and washed the city—’

  ‘As if to cleanse her path,’ murmured Endest Silann.

  ‘Faith can survive a little water,’ said Cedorpul.

  The historian heard the diffidence in that assertion. ‘Do you sense this ancient awakening, priest?’

  The round-faced man shrugged. ‘In witnessing something both unexpected and … vast, there is a sense of awe, but that is perfectly reasonable. Such reactions are beneath argument, I would say. Is this synonymous with reverential awe? I think not.’

  ‘Although we possess no documents,’ observed Rise Herat, ‘it is fair to assume that the seasonal rise and fall of the river was integral to the worship of the river god. Is it not clear that we have witnessed a miracle?’

  ‘Yet the water retreats,’ Cedorpul countered. ‘The power here belongs to Mother Dark.’

  ‘“Upon the field of battle, I saw peacocks.”’

  ‘The meaning of that, historian?’

  ‘Only that the ground is contested now, priest. It may well be that Warlock Resh will make claim to the temple itself.’

  ‘He dare not!’

  Below, the Azathanai woman, of average height, thin, dressed in strange, colourless garb, now reached the gate. She made no pause and a moment later disappeared from sight. Her path would take her across a squat bridge to an inner gate, and from there into the Citadel itself. Behind her the two riders dismounted and followed, leaving their horses with the other monks – who, it seemed, would not be entering the Citadel grounds. Rise watched as the mounted warriors wheeled around and, leading the two riderless horses, set off back across the concourse at a fast trot.

  ‘These matters are beyond us,’ said Endest Silann. ‘I am unbalanced and feel unwell.’

  ‘Betrayed by your nervous constitution,’ Cedorpul said. ‘Mother Dark cannot be assailed at the very heart of her power.’

  ‘Mother Dark is not the one at threat here,’ said Rise, thinking of Caplo Dreem.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Endest Silann asked.

  The historian shrugged. ‘An idle thought. Pay it no mind. Instead, consider this: it is only when opposed that some things find definition. Few would argue, I think, that Darkness is a difficult thing to worship. What is it we seek in elevating Mother Dark? What manner of unity can we find circling a place of negation?’

  ‘Contentious questions,’ Cedorpul said, his tone too light for the assertion.

  Sensing the strain in the priest, Rise Herat spoke again, ‘Religious practice rises from precedent, after all.’

  ‘You would argue the matter of religious practice?’

  ‘If it helps this moment, Cedorpul, then my answer is yes. My point is, you are all starving for guidance. For all of Mother Dark’s power, there is no prescription. What form must ritual observance take? How is proper propitiation to be achieved and is it even desired by the one whom you would worship? In what manner do you announce obeisance? These are the issues occupying your priesthood, and the source of debate.’

  ‘The resurrection of the river god offers us no worthy answers, historian. The faith died, did it not?’

  ‘There was a rejection, yes; that much is clear. One need only look upon the determined defacing of the walls in the temple to grasp something of the rage surrounding that crisis. Yet, one could argue that it was the perceived death of their god that so triggered the frenzy of destruction.’

  ‘What if it was guilt?’ Endest asked.

  ‘That suggestion,’ snapped Cedorpul, his colour high, ‘displeases me on countless levels, acolyte.’

  ‘Not all thoughts are uttered to please,’ Rise said. ‘This does not diminish their value. Guilt is a powerful emotion … yes, I can see it gouging faces from walls, words from panels. If the god died, there is cause to ask why. Yet faith alone clearly proved insufficient sustenance, so we need not discuss its veracity, given the persistent presence of the Yan and Yedan Monasteries. And,’ he added, ‘the resurrection of this selfsame god.’

  Cedorpul turned to Endest Silann. ‘Acolyte, we have dallied up here long enough. The others will be gathering – they will be looking for me. Before us now is a challenge and face it we must. Historian, fare you well. Oh, will you look in on the child?’

  Rise Herat smiled. ‘I shall rattle the lock and demand entrance, and she shall cry me begone.’

  Cedorpul’s nod was brisk. ‘That will do.’

  * * *

  High Priestess Emral Lanear stood beside Lord Anomander, awaiting the appearance of the Azathanai and her escort. Syntara had entered the inner chamber and now presumably communed with Mother Dark, although in truth Emral knew that such communion was notoriously frustrating. Perhaps an idealistic, romantic woman well and truly belonged at the heart of something as ephemeral as faith and worship. Perhaps indeed no virtue of pragmatism was possible in matters of the soul, and might even prove anathema to the very notion of the sacred.

  Did not all prophets speak in riddles? Did not diviners slip like eels through an array of futures? Scriptures fraught with hard pronouncements might well be desired, but these were the ones most readily ignored, she suspected – although in truth she knew little of the religions of other peoples. One did not need to be a scholar to observe, however, that faiths were born of stone, water, earth, sun and wind, and should these forces prove harsh and inimical, so too the faith. Hard lives begat hard laws, not just in the necessities of living, but also in those of believing. She well understood that particular dialogue.

  A river in seasonal flood, a forest to hold back the harshest winds, the plenitude of fish, crops and game: these did not describe a harsh world, a scrabble to live. The Tiste had traditionally recoiled from fast rules, as if such rules offended their nature. It was only war that changed this, and now, when Emral took a moment away from her mirror – when she looked upon the many now commanding positions of influence in the Citadel – she saw sharp edges in place of soft lines, and in a host of eyes there was stone instead of water.

  Many were the natural forces to assail a people and give them shape; in her mind, she must now count among them war itself, no different from sun and wind.

  ‘They are coming,’ said Anomander. ‘Will you give greeting first?’

  ‘I see myself as more of a final escort into the presence of Mother Dark, Lord.’

  ‘Very well,’ he replied.

  Motion at the far end of the corridor, and then a sudden bloom of light.

  Ice cracked where it sheathed the stone walls, slid down in sheets. The glow surrounded the Azathanai, its golden hue deepening at its edges, reminding Emral of burning leaves. The power she unveiled as she drew closer made the walls groan and shift. Dust drifted down.

  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 frowne
d. ‘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.