Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

by Steven Erikson

  There were patterns to things, and Hunn Raal had his reasons for working them; in particular on this young man, this untried son of a hero who when speaking of the legions had said we, as if dreams were real. Hunn could see what was needed, but Urusander was not a man to be swayed by exhortations or arguments. He had done his service to the realm, and as far as he was concerned what remained of his life was now his own. He had earned it.

  But the truth was, the realm needed a saviour, and the only way to the father was through the son. Hunn Raal went on, ‘The future is not for someone else, though each of us might think so. It’s for us. Your father understands that, at some deep level – beyond all the crazed Forulkan obsessions with justice and whatever – he knows that he fought for himself, and for you – for the world ahead of you. But instead he hides in his study. He needs drawing out, Osserc. You must see that.’

  But there was an ugly cast to Osserc’s face now, as they fell in behind the line of carts trundling down to the next turn. Hunn Raal could almost see the gnawing fangs inside Osserc’s head. He edged closer, lowering his voice, ‘He refused you a sword in your hands. I know. To keep you safe. But listen, in a cut-down army, what chance do you think you’ll get to put all your training to good use? You say you want to march at my side, and I believe you. Abyss take me, but I’d be proud to be there, seeing that, too.’

  ‘It will never happen,’ Osserc growled.

  ‘The legions want you. They see – and we who are here see every day – so much of the father in his son. We’re all waiting. The day your father is made king, Osserc, is the day he will truly have to let go of the legions, with you taking his place. This is the future we want, all of us. And I tell you, I will work on Urusander. After all, he would never have had you trained to fight if he wanted you doing nothing but making lists of clay cylinders. You need a commission, and we’ll see it done, and that’s a promise.’

  ‘So you keep saying,’ Osserc muttered, but the strength had gone from his anger.

  Hunn Raal slapped him on the back. ‘I do. Now, friend, let’s go drink, shall we?’

  ‘You and your drinking.’

  ‘Trust me; it’s all down to what a soldier’s seen. You’ll find that out soon enough. I plan on getting drunk, and you’ll need to drag me home.’

  ‘Not if I get drunk first.’

  ‘It’s to be a race then, is it? Good!’

  There was something pathetic, Hunn Raal reflected, when a young man longed for a good reason to drink, to sit silent and alone, staring at memories that would not go away. Remembering fallen friends, and the screams of the dying. In truth, Hunn would not wish that on anyone, but if something wasn’t done to make the portrait of Urusander real, as real as it could be, there would be civil war.

  With the legions trapped in the eye of the storm.

  The true irony in all of this was the fact that Hunn Raal’s own Issgin line had more claim to the throne than anyone, even Mother Dark herself. No matter. The past was more than just empty holes. Here and there, those holes had been filled long ago, every truth buried, down deep and out of sight. And it was just as well. What he sought wasn’t for himself, was it? It was for the good of the realm. And even if it cost him his life, he would see Urusander on the Blackwood Throne.

  His thoughts returned to Draconus, like a flash of sudden blood in the night, and he felt rage build hot in his chest. The common belief was that the legions would stand aside and take no part in the squabbles among the nobility. But the common belief was wrong. Hunn Raal would see to it. Should the tensions erupt into open warfare, Draconus would find himself facing not just the sons and daughters of Mother Dark, but Urusander’s Legion as well.

  See you sweet-talk your way out of that mess, Draconus. See where your power-mad ambition finds you then.

  Night clothed the town below, but the inns glowed in the valley bed with soft lanternlight, yellow and gold like the flames of candles. Looking down upon them, Hunn Raal could feel his thirst awaken.

  * * *

  Kadaspala wiped the last stubborn pigment stains from his hands using a cloth soaked in spirits, his eyes watering as the fumes reached his face. He’d sent the servant from his room. The idea of needing someone to help him dress for a meal was absurd. The secret of a great portrait was to meet the subject eye to eye, as equals, whether that subject was a commander of armies, or a shepherd boy who’d give up his own life to defend a flock of ahmryd. He despised the notion of betters. Station and wealth were flimsy props thrown up in front of people as flawed and as mortal as anyone else, and if it was their need to strut and prance behind them, it was proof of internal weakness and nothing else, and what could be more pathetic than that?

  He would never have servants. He wanted no artificial prop to deference. Every life was a gift – he needed only look into the eyes opposite him, at any time on any given day, to know this. It did not matter to whom those eyes belonged. He would see true, and then make that truth plain to see for everyone else. His was a hand that would never lie.

  The day’s sitting had been … adequate. The mood that took Kadaspala when rendering a portrait was a foul one, and he knew it. But most of his impatience was with himself. Each and every day was too short, the light too whimsical, his vision too sharp not to see the failings in his work – and no amount of praise from onlookers could change any of that. Hunn Raal had no doubt thought his comment soothing, even complimentary, but it had taken all of Kadaspala’s will to keep him from stabbing the smirking soldier in the eye with his brush. The passion that stole his mind when composing was a dark, frightening thing. Murderous and vile. Such depths had once frightened him, but now he simply lived with them, like an unpleasant scar marring his face, or pockmarks on his cheeks from some past illness.

  Yet it was the breadth of the contradiction that most disturbed him: that on the one hand he could adhere to the belief that every life was of equal value, a value that was immense, while at the same time despising everyone he knew.

  Almost everyone. There were precious exceptions.

  The reminder made him pause, vision blurring slightly. It did not take much, he knew. A flash of memory, a sudden rush of anticipation for when he would see her again. There was nothing untoward in his love for Enesdia, his sister. He was an artist, after all, who knew the truth of beauty, and she was his definition of that virtue, from the core of her gentle soul to the smooth perfection of her form.

  He dreamed of painting her. It was an abiding dream, an obsessive dream, yet he had never done so and never would. No matter how consuming his effort, no matter how vast his talent, he knew he would fail to capture her, because what he saw wasn’t necessarily there to be seen – though he could not be sure of that, as it was not something he discussed with anyone.

  This battered old warrior, Urusander, offered him an appropriately stark contrast. Men like him were easy to paint. They might well have depths, but those depths were all of one colour, one tone. They were devoid of mystery, and this was what made them such powerful leaders. There was something frightening in that unrelieved monochrome, and yet it seemed to reassure others, as if it were a source of strength.

  Some people suited their transformations, into paint on board, as dyed plaster on walls, or in the unrelieved purity of marble. They existed as both surface and opaque solidity, and it was this quality that Kadaspala found so cruel and monstrous, for it spoke of the will of the world. He knew he played his role. He gave the substance to their assertion of power.

  Portraits were the weapons of tradition, and tradition was the invisible army laying siege to the present. And what was at stake? What victory did it seek? To make the future no different from the past. With every stroke of his brush, Kadaspala opened a wound, against all who would challenge the way things were. He fought that bitter knowledge, perversely setting his talents to the battlements as if he would refuse his own advance.

  He wished he were less aware; he wished that his own talent could somehow blind h
im to its insipid appropriation. But this was not to be.

  Thoughts churning, as they always did following a sitting, he dressed with haphazard indifference and made his way out, down to dine with the Lord of the House. Would it be this night, then, that Urusander or Hunn Raal finally broached the possibility of painting young Osserc? Kadaspala hoped not. He hoped that moment would never come.

  Finish the portrait of the father, and then flee this place. Return home, to see her again.

  He dreaded these formal suppers. They were filled with banal reminiscences of battle, mostly from Hunn Raal, warring with Urusander’s daily discoveries when delving into the arcane idiocy of the Forulkan. With Osserc’s head turning as if on a spike. There was nothing in the Lord’s son that he wanted to paint, no depths to seek out. Behind Osserc’s eyes there was bedrock, disfigured by Hunn Raal’s incessant chipping away. The boy was destined for obscurity, unless he could be prised away from his father and his so-called friend. As it stood, the combination of Urusander’s raising high unassailable walls around his son, and Hunn Raal’s ceaseless undermining of those foundations, left Osserc in genuine danger. Should something lead to a collapse of his world he might well be utterly crushed. In the meantime the sheer oppression was visibly suffocating the young man.

  No matter. None of this was Kadaspala’s problem. He had plenty of his own to worry about. Mother Dark’s power grows, and with that power, she is stealing the light. From the world. What future has an artist, when all is in darkness?

  Mulling on these bleak thoughts, he strode into the dining room. And then paused. The chairs where he had expected to see Hunn Raal and Osserc seated were both vacant. Lord Urusander sat alone at his place at the table’s head, and for once the surface before him was uncluttered – not a single fired-clay cylinder or unfurled scroll of notations weighted down at the corners and awaiting his studious perusal.

  Urusander was leaning back, in one hand a goblet, cradled at his waist. His faded blue eyes were fixed on the artist with an acuity that was unprecedented in his recollection. ‘Good Kadaspala Enes, please sit. No, here, upon my right. It seems that this evening it shall be you and me.’

  ‘I see, my lord.’ He made his way over. The moment he arrived and seated himself, a servant appeared with a goblet to match the Lord’s. Taking it, he looked down. Blackvine, the rarest and most expensive wine in the realm.

  ‘I was looking upon your day’s work,’ Urusander continued.

  ‘Indeed, Lord?’

  Urusander’s eyes flickered slightly, the only detail to signal his mood, and that signal was obscure. ‘You are not curious as to my opinion?’

  ‘No.’

  The Lord sipped, and it could have been stale water that passed his lips for all the change in his expression. ‘One may presume, I hope, that the notion of an audience is relevant to you.’

  ‘Relevant, Lord? Oh, it’s relevant … to an extent. But if you imagine that I yearn for a heavenly chorus of opinion, then you must think me naïve. If I were to require such reward as if it were the blood of life, why, I would starve. As would virtually every other artist in Kurald Galain.’

  ‘So opinions are without value?’

  ‘I value only those that please me, Lord.’

  ‘Then would you deny the potential worth of constructive criticism?’

  ‘That depends,’ Kadaspala replied, still to taste the wine.

  ‘Upon what?’ Urusander asked, as servants appeared once more, this time with the first course. Plates whispered down, the air was stirred by bodies in motion behind and around the two men, and the candles on the table flickered and dipped this way and that.

  ‘How fare your studies, Lord?’

  ‘You evade my question?’

  ‘I choose my own path to answering it.’

  Neither anger nor patronizing amusement touched Urusander’s worn face. ‘Very well. The issue I am struggling with is one of moral stance. Written law is in itself pure, at least in so far as language can make it. Ambiguity emerges only in its practical application upon society, and at this point hypocrisy seems to be the inevitable consequence. The law bends to those in power, like a willow or perhaps a cultured rosebush, or even a fruit-bearing tree trained against a wall. Where it grows depends upon the whims of those in power, and before too long, why, the law becomes a twisted thing indeed.’

  Kadaspala set the goblet down, eyed the food on the plate before him. Smoked meat, some kind of glazed vegetable, positioned in a way as if to regard each other. ‘But are not laws little more than formalized opinions, Lord?’

  Urusander’s brows lifted. ‘I begin to see the direction of your thoughts, Kadaspala. To answer you, yes, they are. Opinions on the proper and peaceful governance of society—’

  ‘Excuse me, but peaceful is not a word that comes to my mind when thinking of law. At its core is subjugation, after all.’

  Urusander considered, and then said, ‘Only in the matter of mitigating damaging or antisocial behaviour, and at this point I return you to my first comment. That is, of moral stance. It is the very matter with which I am struggling, with little forward progress, I admit. So,’ he took another sip and then set the goblet down and picked up his knife, ‘let us set aside the notion of “peaceful” for the moment. Consider the very foundation of the matter, namely, that law exists to impose rules of acceptable behaviour in social discourse, yes? Good, then let us add the notion of protecting one from harm, both physical and spiritual, and, well, you see the dilemma.’

  Kadaspala considered that for a moment, and then he shook his head. ‘Laws decide which forms of oppression are allowed, Lord. And because of that, those laws are servants to those in power, for whom oppression is given as a right over those who have little or no power. Now, shall we return to art, Lord? When stripped down to its bones, criticism is a form of oppression. Its intent is to manipulate both artist and audience, by imposing rules on aesthetic appreciation. Curiously, its first task is to belittle the views of those who appreciate a certain work but are unable or unwilling to articulate their reasons for doing so. On occasion, of course, one of those viewers rises to the bait, taking umbrage at being dismissed as being ignorant, at which point critics en masse descend to annihilate the fool. No more than defending one’s own precious nest, one presumes. But on another level, it is the act of those in power in protecting their interests, those interests being nothing less than absolute oppression through the control of personal taste.’

  Urusander had sat motionless through this, knife point thrust through a sliver of meat and suspended halfway to his mouth. When Kadaspala finished, he set the knife down and reached once more for his wine. ‘But I am not a critic,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed not, Lord, which is why I said I wasn’t curious about your opinion. I am curious about the opinions of critics. But about the opinions of those with no agenda beyond the aesthetic, I am interested.’

  Urusander snorted. ‘Take some wine, Kadaspala, you have just earned it.’

  The mouthful he took was modest.

  ‘Other nights when we sit here,’ Urusander said, now frowning, ‘you will finish off an entire carafe on your own.’

  ‘Other nights, Lord, I am subjected to war stories.’

  Urusander laughed, the sound startling the servants with its booming thunder. Somewhere in the kitchen something crashed down to the stone floor.

  ‘The wine,’ said Kadaspala, ‘is exceptional, Lord.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? And do you know why I have not served it before this night?’

  ‘Every morning, Lord, I check my jugs of cleaning spirits, to ensure Hunn Raal has not plundered them.’

  ‘Just so, artist, just so. Now, let us eat, but keep your wits about you. On this night, let us stretch our minds in dialogue.’

  Kadaspala spoke with utter honesty. ‘Lord, pray we talk these candles down as the only measure of the evening’s passage.’

  Urusander’s eyes were narrow and thoughtful. ‘I was warned to
expect nothing but foul and bitter regard when in your company.’

  ‘Only when I paint, Lord. Only when I paint. Now, if it pleases you, I am interested in hearing your thoughts on my work thus far.’

  ‘My thoughts? I have but one, Kadaspala. I had no idea I was so transparent.’

  He nearly dropped the goblet. Only the quick intercession of a servant saved him.

  * * *

  Enesdia, daughter of Lord Jaen of House Enes, stood frowning at the silvered mirror. The dye in the dress was said to come from a tuberous vegetable, which when simmered produced a deep and pure scarlet. ‘It’s the colour of blood,’ she said. ‘This is what everyone in Kharkanas is going mad for?’

  The seamstresses flanking her in the reflection looked pale and drab, almost lifeless.

  Seated off to the left on a settee, Cryl of House Durav cleared his throat in a manner all too familiar to Enesdia, and she turned, brows lifting, and said, ‘And what shall we argue about this morning, then? The cut of the dress? The style of the court? Or is it my hair that now dismays you? As it happens, I like it short. The shorter the better. Why should you complain about it, anyway? It’s not as though you’ve let your hair go long as a horse tail just to fit in with the day’s fashion. Oh, I don’t know why I invited you in at all.’

  Mild surprise played with his even features for the briefest of moments, and then he offered up a lopsided shrug. ‘I was just thinking, it’s more vermilion than scarlet, isn’t it. Or is it our eyes that are changing?’

  ‘Idiotic superstitions. Vermilion … well.’

  ‘Dog-Runner wives call it the “Born of the Hearth”, don’t they?’

  ‘That’s because they boil the root, fool.’

  ‘Oh, I would think the name more descriptive than that.’

  ‘Would you now? Haven’t you somewhere to be, Cryl? Some horse to train? Some sword to whet?’

  ‘You invite me only to then send me away?’ The young man rose smoothly. ‘If I were a sensitive soul, I might be offended. As it is, I know this game – we have played it all our lives, haven’t we?’