That said, so many other things had been surrendered in the loss of his own imagination. It was difficult to feel anything for the lives of others. He had no interest, beyond the professional, in searching out empathy, and saw no reason to shift his own perspective on matters of opinion, since his opinions were soundly rooted in pragmatism and therefore proved ultimately unassailable.
For all of this, as they rode into the thinned fringe of the ancient forest, with the tight creaking of the Azathanai’s mount an incessant rhythm behind them, Caplo felt a chill that had nothing to do with the sudden falling off of sunlight. He glanced across at Resh to see the man’s craggy face sheathed in sweat.
‘Does she awaken her power again?’ he asked in a low tone.
Resh simply shook his head, a singular gesture of negation so uncharacteristic of the warlock that Caplo was startled and, indeed, somewhat frightened.
He looked about, eyes narrowed upon the shadows between the trees lining the road. He saw rubbish heaped in the ditches, and there, thirty or so paces deeper into the wood to his right, a squalid hovel wreathed in woodsmoke, with what might be a figure sitting hunched behind a smouldering fire – or perhaps it was nothing more than a boulder, or a stump. The air was cool on the cobbled road, redolent with decay, acidic enough to bite the back of his throat with each breath he took. There was little sound, barring that of a barking dog somewhere in the distance, and the nearer clump of horse hoofs upon the muddy stones.
The other times Caplo had ridden through, on his way to and from Kharkanas, he had barely noticed this stretch of woodland. There seemed to be as many stumps as growing trees, but now he realized that this was only true of the area immediately flanking the road. Things grew wilder deeper into the forest, where the gloom was a shroud no gaze could pierce, and to travel through would require a torch or lantern. It was astonishing to think people lived in this forest, hidden away, confined to an ever shrinking world.
‘They are free,’ said Resh in a strained voice.
Caplo started. ‘My friend, of whom do you speak?’
‘Free in ways lost to the rest of us. You see their limits, their seeming poverty. You see them as fallen, forgotten, ignorant.’
‘Resh, I do not see them at all.’
‘What they are is free,’ insisted Resh, his gloved hands making fists on the saddle horn where they gripped the reins. ‘No tithes, no tributes to pay. Perhaps even coin itself is unknown to them, and every measure of wealth lies within reach of able hands, and within sight of loving eyes. Caplo, when the last forest is gone, so too will end the last free people of the world.’
Caplo considered this, and then shrugged. ‘We’ll not notice the loss.’
‘Yes, and this is why: they are the keepers of our conscience.’
‘It is no wonder then that I never see them.’
‘Yes,’ said Resh, his tone removing all the humour from Caplo’s words.
Irritated, made uneasy by this wood, Caplo scowled. ‘It avails us nothing to elevate the impoverished.’
‘I do not speak of those who have fled our way of living,’ replied Resh, ‘although one might argue that by choice or by accident they walk towards truth, while we plunge ever forward into a world of self-delusion. No matter. Those I am speaking of are those who were never tamed. They live still in this forest – perhaps only a hundred or so left. One cannot imagine their numbers any greater than that. We take their home, tree by tree, shadow by shadow. To know too much is to lose the wonder of mystery. In answering every question we forget the value of not knowing.’
‘There is no value in not knowing. Roll that thick hide of yours, Resh, and shake free of this nonsense. The value of not knowing? What value?’
‘You have no answer and so you conclude that none exists. And there in your reaction, O pallid wretch, lies the lesson.’
‘Riddles now? You know how much I dislike riddles. Out with it, then. Tell me what I lack. What is gained by not knowing?’
‘Humility, you fool.’
Behind them T’riss spoke up, her voice carrying with unnatural clarity. ‘In ritual you abased yourselves. I saw it in the courtyard, many times. But the gesture was rote – even in your newfound fear, the meaning of that abasement was lost.’
‘Please,’ growled Resh, ‘explain yourself, Azathanai.’
‘I will. You carve an altar from stone. You paint the image of waves upon the wall and so fashion a symbol of that which you would worship. You give it a thousand names, and imagine a thousand faces. Or a single name, a single face. Then you kneel, or bow, or lie flat upon the ground, making yourselves abject in servitude, and you may call the gesture humble before your god, and see in your posture righteous humility.’
‘This is all accurate enough,’ said Resh.
‘Just so,’ she agreed. ‘And by this means you lose the meaning of the ritual, until the ritual is itself the meaning. These are not gestures of subservience. Not expressions of the surrendering of your will to a greater power. This is not the relationship your god seeks, yet it is the one upon which you insist. The river god is not the source of your worship; or rather, it shouldn’t be. The river god meets your eye and yearns for your comprehension – not of itself as a greater power, but comprehension of the meaning of its existence.’
‘And that meaning is?’ Resh demanded.
‘Recall the gesture of abasement, warlock. You make it in recognition of your own humility. A god’s powers are immeasurable and before them you are nothing. Therefore you would worship your god and surrender your life into its hands. But it doesn’t want your life, and knows not what to do with your longing, helpless soul. In ritual and symbol you have lost yourselves. Could the god make you understand, it would make you understand this simple truth: the only thing worthy of worship is humility itself.’
Caplo snorted and then made to speak, to heap derision upon her assertion – but he did not even need Resh’s gesture of admonishment to bite his tongue. It was true that he had no imagination, but even he could see the pattern of predictable behaviour, in this confusing of ritual and meaning, symbol and truth.
‘Then,’ said Resh in a rasp, ‘what does our god want of us?’
‘Dear child,’ said T’riss, ‘he wants you to be free.’
* * *
Caplo was not one to welcome revelation. He felt knocked askew, and what galled him the most was that he understood, with absolute clarity, the Azathanai’s argument. Earlier, she had announced to them that they had killed their ancient river god. In binding water to mundane uses, in taking away its freedom, they had slain the very entity they sought to worship. It was only logical, then, that what the god wished for was freedom, and in that freedom, a life reborn.
He did not know how she had resurrected that river god, but there was no dissembling when she then said that change was coming to them all.
They rode on in febrile silence following her words, and when Caplo glanced across at Warlock Resh, he saw that his friend was silently weeping, and the glitter of the tears, so raw on his cheeks, was like a bitter gift in the gloom.
In tears, water runs free. One of the oldest poems in the scriptures, penned by an unknown hand. Generations had argued over the meaning, embracing both the prosaic and the profane; but in a handful of words from T’riss, that meaning was suddenly clear, and Caplo could almost hear the regret, echoing in the tormented scratching of quill upon parchment, from that unknown, heartbroken poet.
A truth buried in mysterious words. This was how imagination could be both gift and curse. For himself, he would rather have remained ignorant, but it was too late for that.
After a ride through the night, wrapped in silence and anguish, they reached the edge of the forest, and the city of Kharkanas rose before them, knuckled against the banks of the Dorssan Ryl, like a massive fist of black stone.
* * *
The old temple at the heart of the Citadel always made High Priestess Emral Lanear think of a closed eye within a deep
socket. The bones spread out from this shuttered centre, in angular additions, the black stone heaped in a half-dozen architectural styles to fashion something like a crushed skull, flattened by its own weight, its innumerable burdens. There was nothing of beauty in the Citadel and for all the life that rushed through it, in corridors and chambers, on saddled steps and in musty cellars, it conjured in her mind an image of bugs trapped in that skull, desperate for a way out.
The stones were insensate, and so the eye remained shut. One could look upon a lifeless face for as long as one liked; if it was truly lifeless, it would never change. No flickering of the lids; no drawing of breath, nothing at all to shock the observer with the undoing of truth, or the unmaking of time.
She was walking beside Sister Syntara, in formal cadence, as they approached the Grand Hall that had once been the temple’s nave. Behind them trailed a dozen priestesses, their fluttering excitement stripped away as, with each step, the way ahead grew darker, defying the candles, devouring the light from the flanking torches on the walls.
None could draw close to the presence of Mother Dark without slowing their steps, and even though preternatural vision was now common among the priestesses and those closest to their chosen goddess, there remained an ineffable pressure in the air, and a chill that reached deep into the bones. Hands could not help but tremble. Breaths grew shallow, the air biting the lungs.
Fifteen solemn strides from the entrance, Emral felt something strike her forehead, and then trickle down to her brow. An instant later she gasped as the wet streak froze against her face. Another drop landed upon her hand where it held the Scabbard, and she looked down to see the bead of water form instantly into ice, numbing the skin beneath.
There was no rain in the city beyond. These corridors were so dry they stole the vigour of health from the youngest priestesses – this was true of the entire Citadel.
Hisses of surprise and then consternation rustled behind her.
Sister Syntara stopped abruptly, proffering the Sceptre to Emral. ‘Sheathe it, Sister. Something is happening.’
There could be no argument to that. Emral accepted the iron and blackwood rod, slipped it into its protective shell.
Droplets of freezing water now rained upon them all. Looking up, Emral saw the gleam of frost covering the rounded arch of the ceiling. Shock stole away her voice. Blistering cold water stung her upturned face.
All at once comprehension arrived, a flood in her mind, and with it came wonder. For all that, the taste was bitter. ‘The eye has opened,’ she said.
Syntara’s glare was almost accusing. ‘What eye? This is the Azathanai’s work! She assails Mother Dark’s domain. This is nothing but unveiled power, mocking the sanctity of the temple!’
‘The sanctity of the temple, Sister? Indeed, but not in mockery.’ She glanced back at the train of huddling, frightened priestesses. ‘The procession is at an end. Return to your cloisters. The High Priestesses must seek private audience with Mother Dark. Go!’
They flapped and fluttered away like panicked crows.
‘The procession was not for you to command,’ snapped Syntara.
‘Paint your lines in spit and fury, Sister, if that is as far as you can see. I am not—’
Heavy boots sounded from down the corridor and she turned to see Anomander approaching, behind him his two brothers. Frozen water droplets bounced from their armour like diamond beads.
‘Emral,’ said Anomander. ‘The Azathanai is now through the gate of the city. The river is in flood and water streams down the streets. I would have your thoughts on this.’
‘The Shake, Lord Anomander.’
A low curse came from Silchas Ruin. ‘They invite a war of faiths? Are they mad?’
Syntara was looking back and forth between Emral and the brothers, her expression confused.
Anomander glanced to the barred doors just beyond them, and then he shook his head. ‘That seems unlikely, High Priestess. Their cult looks inward. Not once have they revealed any ambition to reclaim the old temple.’
He well understood the matter, she saw. The quickness of his thinking surpassed even hers. ‘Perhaps you are right, Lord. Then, they must be as disconcerted as are we. Sufficient to consider them as potential allies?’
‘Not reliably, I should think,’ he replied. ‘The impasse is theirs – I imagine there is chaos in the monasteries. One thing the worship of a dead god assures, and that is unmitigated freedom for the priesthood.’
‘But now …’
He nodded. ‘Their plans are awry. They face challenge from a most unexpected quarter.’
‘If they are nimble of thought,’ Emral ventured, ‘they will see the potential strength here, bolstering whatever position they take in matters of the realm.’
‘Profane matters, yes.’ He hesitated, still ignoring Syntara, and then said, ‘I am informed that Mother Sheccanto lies gravely ill – in consequence, I should imagine. And that Skelenal hastens to her side. They are old but hardly foolish.’
Silchas said, ‘Then we must look to Warlock Resh and Witch Ruvera to determine what is to come from the Shake.’
Another sharp mind, Emral noted. She could forgive Andarist’s distraction, although she well knew that among the brothers, the depth of his introspection was a close match to Anomander’s almost mythical talent in that area, although demonstrably slower in its steps. She said to Silchas, ‘I am informed that the Azathanai’s escort is Warlock Resh and Lieutenant Caplo Dreem.’
‘Caplo,’ said Silchas.
‘Yes,’ mused Anomander. ‘Let us think on that.’
‘Sheccanto is afraid,’ concluded Emral. ‘There can be no other reason for Caplo Dreem.’ She regarded Anomander. ‘His eyes will be upon the Azathanai, surely.’
‘Agreed. But this is Sheccanto’s panic, not ours, and I do not see the value of a messenger slain at the foot of Mother Dark.’
‘Lord Anomander,’ Emral asked, ‘can you prevent it?’
‘We have the advantage of expectation,’ Anomander replied, with a glance at Silchas, who nodded and then shrugged.
‘You all hesitate,’ Emral observed.
Frozen rain still fell. Pellets like hail deepened on the floor.
Anomander sighed. ‘With blade in hand, Caplo Dreem is faster than anyone I have ever seen. I could well stand beside him and still fail.’
‘Then stand between him and the Azathanai,’ hissed Syntara. ‘They approach and here we blather on like old hens, wasting time! Mother Dark must be warned—’
‘She knows and needs no more from us,’ said Anomander. ‘Sister Syntara, we hens have much to decide here, yet you persist in pecking the ground.’
‘I am her chosen High Priestess!’
‘Your elevation was intended to ease the burden of administration from Sister Emral,’ Anomander replied. ‘Little did Mother Dark realize your venal ambition, and if you think high tits and a damp nest are the surest paths to power, might I refer you to Gallan’s poem, “Trophies of Youth”? By the poem’s end, even the words fade.’ He faced Emral. ‘High Priestess, I will address the matter of Caplo Dreem before we enter the Grand Hall.’
‘I am relieved,’ she replied, struggling to hide her astonishment at Anomander’s words to Syntara. An elevation to ease administration? She had not known this. And now … is there regret?
Silchas spoke. ‘What, then, of this matter of an awakened river god?’
Relief was flooding through Emral. These brothers, the first chosen among Mother Dark’s children, made fragile every fear and then shattered each one with sanguine confidence. Each time she looked upon them – Anomander, Silchas and especially Andarist – she saw their father, and the love within her, so shackled, so raw and bleeding beneath her obsessive flagellations, surged anew with defiant strength. Pleasure in anguish, hope in long-broken promises – she could almost feel years fall from her when in the presence of these three sons.
To Silchas’s pointed question, Emral said, ‘That depe
nds, I now believe, upon Warlock Resh.’
‘We shall await them here,’ said Anomander.
‘Too many of us here suggests weakness,’ Andarist observed. ‘I will withdraw. Silchas?’
Silchas turned to Anomander and smiled. ‘The two of us together twice drowns the threat and what needs drowning twice? I am with Andarist. It’s said Captain Kellaras has returned but is waylaid in a tavern by Dathenar and Prazek. Andarist, I suggest we join them. Anomander, shall we enquire from your good captain Hust Henarald’s answer?’
‘Why not?’ Anomander answered. ‘I am passing curious.’
Both his brothers snorted at that, and then they set off.
Emral knew nothing of the meaning of these last comments. Hust Henarald stood outside all political machinations. She wondered what Anomander might want of the man. Foolish woman! What else could it be? My … if an iron cry sounds in the Citadel, the echoes will travel far.
But there had been not a moment of hesitation in either Andarist or Silchas. Their trust in their brother’s competence was breathtaking under the circumstances.
Sons of the father.
But of their mother’s flaws, I pray … none.
‘Are we to simply stand here, then?’ Syntara demanded.
‘You are not needed,’ Anomander said to her. ‘Seek shelter in Mother Dark’s presence.’
‘You invite me to private audience with our goddess?’ Syntara smirked. ‘I will accept, most assuredly.’ She waved a pallid hand, dismissing them all. ‘Surrender all decorum out here in the corridor, by all means. I shall remain above such awkwardness, since it seems that I alone understand the position of High Priestess.’
‘Would that be on your knees, Syntara?’
Despite the paint on her face, and despite the gloom of the hallway, Syntara visibly paled. Fury burgeoned in her eyes and she spun from them, marching towards the doors. A moment later and she was through. As the echo of the door’s closing drummed down the corridor, Emral shook her head. ‘She’ll not forget that insult, Lord Anomander, and for all her vanity, do not think her harmless.’
Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) Page 36