Forge of Darkness

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Is this how you baited Tutor Sagander?’

  ‘I never baited him—’

  ‘Behind your innocent guise you make every word a weapon, Arathan. This may have worked with Sagander, since he refused to see you as anything but a small child. Among men, however, you will be known as dissembling and treacherous.’

  ‘I do not dissemble, Father.’

  ‘When you feign ignorance of the wounds your words deliver, you dissemble.’

  ‘Do you always send away the ones you love? Must we always journey through the ruins of your past? Olar Ethil—’

  ‘I was speaking of belief,’ Draconus replied, with iron in his tone. ‘It will make your path, Arathan, and I say that with certainty, because it is belief that guides each and every one of us. You may imagine it as a host and you may well feel the wayward tug of every conviction, and convince yourself that they each summon with purpose. But this is not a mindful journey, and the notion of progress is an illusion. Do not trust the goals awaiting you: they are chimeras, and their promise salves the very belief that invented them, and by this deception you ever end where you began, but in that end you find yourself not young, not filled with zeal as you once were, but old and exhausted.’

  ‘What you describe is not a worthy ambition. If this is your wisdom’s gift then it is a bitter one.’

  ‘I am trying to warn you. Strife awaits us, Arathan. I fear it shall reach far beyond the borders of Kurald Galain. I did what I could for Mother Dark, but like you she was young when first I gave my gift to her. Every step she has taken since then she believes to be purposeful and forward. This is one anchor we all share.’ He fell silent, as if made despondent by his own words.

  ‘Is that how you view love, Father? As a gift you bestow upon others, only to then stand back to watch and see if they are worthy of it? And when they fail, as they must, you discard them and set out in search of the next victim?’

  His face darkened. ‘There is a fine line between fearless and foolish, Arathan, and you now stride it precariously. The gift of which I spoke was not love. It was power.’

  ‘Power should never be a gift,’ Arathan said.

  ‘An interesting assertion, from one so powerless. But I will listen. Go on.’

  ‘Gifts are rarely appreciated,’ Arathan said, and in his mind he was remembering his first night with Feren. ‘And the one who receives knows only confusion. At first. And then hunger … for more. And in that hunger, there is expectation, and so the gift ceases being a gift, and becomes payment, and to give itself becomes a privilege and to receive it a right. By this all sentiment sours.’

  Draconus drew up. Arathan did the same a moment later and swung Besra around to face him. The wind seemed to slide between them.

  His father’s gaze was narrow, searching. ‘Arathan, I think now that you heard Grizzin Farl’s warning to me.’

  ‘I don’t recall, sir, if I did. I don’t remember much of that evening.’

  Draconus studied him a moment longer and then looked away. ‘It seems,’ he said, ‘that every gift I give is carved from my own flesh, and by every wound and every scar upon my body, I map the passage of my loves. Did you know, son, that I rarely sleep? I but weather the night, amidst aches and sore repose.’

  If this confession sought sympathy from Arathan, he judged himself a failure. ‘I would evade that fate for myself, sir. The wisdom you have offered me is not the one you intended, so I cannot but view it as a most precious gift.’

  The smile Draconus then swung to him was wry. ‘You have reawakened my pity for Sagander, and I do not refer to an amputated leg.’

  ‘Sagander’s iron stakes pinned him to the ground long ago, sir. Legs or not, he does not move and never will.’

  ‘You are quick to judge. What you describe makes him no less dangerous.’

  Arathan shrugged. ‘Only if we walk too close. He is in my past now, sir. I do not expect to see him again.’

  ‘I would think not,’ Draconus agreed. ‘But I wonder if I have not wronged him. You are far from easy company, Arathan. Now, a house awaits us.’

  Following his father’s gesture, Arathan looked ahead. Plain in sight, as if conjured from the ground less than a hundred paces distant, was a low structure. Its long roof sagged in the middle and a few gaps were visible as black holes amidst the lichen-covered slate tiles. Beneath the projecting eaves, the stone walls were roughly hewn and streaked with red stains. The yard around the house was devoid of grass and looked beaten down.

  ‘Is it conjured?’ Arathan asked.

  ‘Suggested is the better word,’ Draconus replied.

  They set off towards it. The house appeared to be abandoned, but Arathan was certain that it was not. He squinted at the black patches made by the windows to either side of the solid door – which seemed to have been hacked from a single slab of grey stone – but could make out no movement in the shadows within. ‘Are we expected?’

  ‘More than expected, Arathan. Necessary.’

  ‘Necessary for this house to be?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘Then surely, Father, belief has more power than you credit it.’

  ‘I never discredited the power of belief, Arathan. I but warned you that it can offer dubious charms, and rarely does it invite self-analysis, much less reproach.’

  ‘Then sorcery must never be examined too closely? Lest it lose its power?’

  ‘Lest it cease to exist, Arathan. What is it to be a god, if not to hold the unfettered willingness to believe?’

  ‘Now you grant belief omnipotence. I can see how that would charm anyone, even a god.’

  ‘With each day, son, I see you grow more formidable.’

  The observation startled Arathan. He already regretted his brutal words to his father. As if I can speak of love. The only game I knew to play was one of possession. It does ill to treat love as would a child a toy. Feren, I am sorry for all that I did, for all that I was, and was not. ‘I am anything but formidable, Father. I but flail with weapons too large to hold.’

  Draconus grunted. ‘As do we all.’

  There was motion from one window as they drew closer, and a moment later a figure clambered out from it. A man: not much older than Arathan himself. He was dressed in bloodstained clothing, loose and made from silks. A half-cape of deep green wool covered his shoulders, its collar turned up. He was dark-haired, clean-shaven, not unhandsome, although his face bore a frown as he worked free of the window and found his feet.

  At the edge of the barren yard, Draconus reined in and Arathan did the same. His father dismounted. ‘Join me, Arathan,’ he said, and there was a strange timbre to his voice, as if awakened to excitement or, perhaps, relief.

  A flock of the unknown birds was drawing closer, swarming the sky behind the house. Their flight was strange and the sight of them made Arathan uneasy. He slipped down from Besra.

  The stranger – another Azathanai, no doubt – had walked halfway across the yard and now stood, eyes upon Draconus, and in place of the frown there was a mocking smile that stole the grace from his visage. Arathan imagined his fist driving into that smile, obliterating it. Satisfaction warmed his thoughts.

  The stranger’s gaze snapped to Arathan’s and that unctuous smile broadened. ‘Would you rather not kiss it from me?’ he asked.

  Beside Arathan, his father said, ‘Yield nothing to this one’s baiting, son. The soil ever shifts beneath him.’

  The stranger’s brows lifted. ‘Now, Draconus, no need to be cruel in your judgement. My artistry is what binds the two of us, after all.’

  ‘For scarce a breath longer, Errastas. The gift is made, by you it seems, and I will have it.’

  ‘Gladly,’ Errastas replied, but he made no move; nor, Arathan noted, was the man carrying anything that might contain a gift. Perhaps he gives as I will give.

  ‘You wear blood, Errastas,’ Draconus observed. ‘What grim passage is behind you?’

  Errastas looked down at the stains on his silks
. ‘Oh, it’s not mine, Suzerain. Well, most of it isn’t, that is. The journey you set upon me proved fraught. I have never before bound power to an object where in its making I give nothing of myself. It proved most … enlightening.’

  ‘Night is not unwelcome, Errastas, and chaos needs nothing of blood, nor can it be made to spill it.’

  Arathan sensed a growing tension in the air. The flock of birds was rushing closer, and with it came a seething sound, not of wings but of voices, uncannily high-pitched. He still could not make out their breed. His body was tensing and his mouth had gone dry. He did not like Errastas.

  To his father’s words, Errastas had but shrugged. Then he cocked his head. ‘Scarce a breath, Draconus? You cannot imagine the discoveries I have made. My journey was eventful, as Sechul Lath would attest, since he accompanied me, and you might imagine its reward is now awaiting your hand this day. For you, surely it is. But for me, why, I have just begun.’ He held out an angular black disc, barely larger than the palm of his hand. ‘Behold, Suzerain, the folding of Night.’

  ‘I will have it.’

  Smiling once more, Errastas strode closer. ‘Have you even considered the precedent set in the making of this, Draconus? I doubt it. You’re too old. All acuteness has dulled in your mind, and by love alone you are blind as these hunting bats.’

  ‘They hunt you, Errastas? Then you had best flee here.’ So saying, Draconus reached out and took up the object.

  ‘This is consecrated ground, O Lord. They wheel, sensing me near, but they cannot find me. These things I am now able to do, and much more besides. Will you understand this at least? What we have done – you by your demand and me by the answering of it – will see the death of the old ways. The death of wandering itself.’ He gestured with his now empty hand. ‘Our kin who kneel before the Azath, and so make deities of insensate stone, will find new assurance in what they worship, because like it or not, we have made true their faith. Power will find those places now, Draconus, and though the worshippers will remain ignorant of its source, it is all by our hands.’ He laughed. ‘Is that not amusing?’

  ‘This gift is singular, Errastas.’

  The young man shrugged again. ‘Indeed it is.’

  ‘You have made none other?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Where is Sechul Lath?’

  ‘Near, but he has no wish to speak with you.’

  ‘If I find that you deceive me here, Errastas, I shall hunt you down, and with far greater efficacy than these helpless trackers.’

  ‘No doubt. But I tell you the truth. I have made no rivals, neither of Night’s aspect, nor of any other’s.’

  Draconus was silent, studying Errastas.

  ‘I swear it!’ the Azathanai laughed. ‘Look at me! Do you think I would willingly repeat the ordeal I have suffered in the making of this Teron? How do you imagine I bound so much power to those crushed leaves? You above all others will comprehend the limits of wood, the atrocious absence of subtlety in stone, and the infuriating elusiveness of water and air. Did you truly think Night would readily yield to such binding? And by what coin could I make such purchase?’ He stepped back and essayed a grand bow. ‘See how I wear my wealth, O Lord?’

  All at once Draconus staggered as if struck.

  Before them Errastas, still in his bowing pose, was fading, like a ghostly apparition. Behind him the roof of the house suddenly slumped, collapsing inward in a dusty crash.

  Bats thundered in, a chaotic maelstrom descending upon the site. Ducking, buffeted by wings, Arathan moved to the shelter of Besra’s side – but the beast was tossing its head in fright, dragging him across the ground in its panic. The warhorse Hellar, however, stood fast, and though Besra could with ease drag Arathan, it was drawn up short when the lead between it and Hellar snapped taut. Sheltering between the two beasts, Arathan covered his head, crouching low.

  A sudden concussion erupted.

  Moments later the air was clear – entirely empty, as if the bats had simply vanished.

  Shaken, Arathan looked up, and then across to where stood Draconus.

  His father had the bearing of a wounded man. His broad shoulders were hunched, his head lowered. For all his girth and height, he suddenly seemed frail. Then Arathan heard Draconus whisper a single word, a name that he had heard before.

  ‘Karish.’

  All at once Arathan remembered the scene between his father and Olar Ethil: the sudden sheathing of verbal knives, the dismissal of threats. ‘An Azathanai has committed murder.’ A woman among the Jaghut. Her name was Karish and Father knew her, enough to be shocked by the news, enough to grieve and seek comfort from his old lover.

  ‘Your gift to Mother Dark,’ said Arathan, ‘is soaked in blood.’

  When his father said nothing to that, he continued, ‘Errastas needed it, he said. To achieve what you wanted. Now he wears his raiment plainly, and in that boldness he reveals his thirst for more … more blood, and the power that comes from it.’

  ‘She will make this gift pure,’ Draconus said, without turning. ‘When Night unfolds once more, it will scour clean the binding – it will purge this poison.’

  ‘And so hide the crime from her eyes. You will not tell her, will you, Father?’

  ‘Nothing stays broken for ever.’ These whispered words were like a promise. He turned to face Arathan. ‘You think to hold this secret over me?’

  Arathan shook his head. He felt suddenly exhausted and wanted only to turn away from all this. ‘Kurald Galain,’ he said, ‘is not for me. Neither is Mother Dark, nor you, Father. None of it is for me. Offer her your flawed gift if you must. I care not. I wish I could spit out this secret we now share, and if Errastas were here to read my thoughts at this moment, he might have cause to fear.’

  Draconus snorted. ‘Most creatures of this world understand that fear can be a virtue. Errastas does not. If you seek him, he will wait for you and know your every thought. It is not a worthy path, Arathan. You are not ready to challenge Errastas.’

  ‘Who hunts him, Father?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Distrusting that reply, Arathan shifted his attention back to the ruined house, where the dust was slow to settle. ‘Who once lived there?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Errastas used it. I would know the workings of his mind.’

  Draconus strode back to Calaras. ‘Leave it, Arathan.’

  ‘You told Olar Ethil that you would seek the Lord of Hate. Will you still do so, Father?’

  ‘Yes.’ Draconus pulled himself into the saddle.

  ‘Will you lie to him as well?’

  To that Draconus said nothing. Instead, he kicked his warhorse into motion.

  Arathan chose Hellar instead of Besra and mounted up, and then set off after his father.

  Draconus had grown so large in Arathan’s eyes. Now he grew small again. His father broke the women he loved, and yet feared that Mother Dark would break him. He was but a Consort; resented by the highborn and feared in the Citadel. He had forged an army out of his Houseblades and so earned the suspicions of Urusander’s Legion. He stood as a man beset on all sides.

  Yet he leaves her, seeking out not a gift of love, but one of power. He thinks love is a toy. He thinks it shines like a bauble, and he makes every gesture a demand seeking love in return. Therefore, each and every thing that he does must be a thing of many meanings.

  But he does not understand that this is his private language, this game of bargaining and the amassing of debts no one else comprehends.

  I begin to understand the many lives of my father, and in each guise new flaws are revealed. I once vowed to hurt him if I could. A foolish conceit. Draconus knows nothing but hurts.

  Did you love Karish once? Tell me, Father, will the blood of one lover feed the next? Is this the precedent Errastas spoke of? Or did he speak as a god, flush with the lifeblood of a mortal?

  Arathan fixed his eyes on his father, who still rode ahead. In days past h
e would have spurred his mount until he was at his side, and they would converse like a father and son in search of each other, and every wound would be small and every truth would weave its way into the skein between them. He would think this both precious and natural, and value the moments all the more for their unfamiliarity.

  Now he chose to remain alone, riding in a reluctant wake, on a path he no longer desired. His thoughts reached back to his memories of Feren – not the bitterness of their departure, but those times when he had shared her warmth. He wished he could surrender to her again. Night after night, if only to show his father a love that worked.

  In the months to come, she would swell with the child they had made, and in her village she would fend off the questions and turn away from all the cruel comments stalking her. Her brother would come to blows defending her honour. And all of this would play out in Arathan’s absence, and he would be judged accordingly. Such venom never lost its virulence.

  If he had been older, he would have fought for her. If he’d had any other father – not Lord Draconus, Consort and Suzerain of Night – he would have found the courage to defy him. Instead, the father made himself anew in his son. And I bow to it. Again and again, I bow to it.

  None of this armour he wore made him strong. It but revealed the weakness of flesh.

  Feren. One day I will come for you. He would weather the scorn of her neighbours, and they would ride away. They would find a world for their child.

  A world that did not feed on blood.

  * * *

  Korya and Haut walked. Low square stone towers studded the landscape, crouched against hillsides, rising from ridges and crowding hilltops. They filled the floodplain to either side of the old river, their bulky shapes shouldering free of the tree-line where the forest had grown back, or hunched low on sunken flats where marsh grasses flowed like waves in the breeze that swept down the length of the valley.

  As they passed among them, skirting the high edge of the valley’s north side, Korya saw that most were abandoned, and those few that showed signs of habitation were distant, and it seemed that Haut’s route deeper into the now dead Jaghut city deftly avoided drawing too near any of them.