Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)
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.’
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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.