Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)
‘They dare not, but this does not dull their disapproval — they cut and stab elsewhere, as befits their bold courage.’
‘You reveal little admiration for your kind, Kadaspala.’
‘I have painted the faces of too many of them, Lord, and so invite you to view that rogue’s gallery of venality, malice, and self-regard. My finest works, one and all, the very proof of my genius.’
‘Do you always paint what you see, Kadaspala?’
‘Not always,’ he admitted. ‘Sometimes I paint what I fear. All these faces — all these greats among the Tiste, you here included — you may think they are about each of you. Alas, they are just as much about me.’
‘I would not challenge that,’ Urusander replied. ‘It must be so with all artists.’
Kadaspala shrugged. ‘The artist is usually poorly disguised in his works, revealed in each and every flaw of execution. The self-confession is one of incompetence. But this is not my failing. What I reveal of myself in these works is less easily discerned. And before you enquire, Lord, no, I have no interest in elaborating on that.’
‘I imagine that those imitators in the Citadel will fail in repeating what you have captured here.’
‘I believe you are right, Lord.’
Urusander grunted. ‘Just as well. Come then, join me in one final meal. I believe you are soon to attend a wedding?’
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‘They dare not, but this does not dull their disapproval — they cut and stab elsewhere, as befits their bold courage.’
‘You reveal little admiration for your kind, Kadaspala.’
‘I have painted the faces of too many of them, Lord, and so invite you to view that rogue’s gallery of venality, malice, and self-regard. My finest works, one and all, the very proof of my genius.’
‘Do you always paint what you see, Kadaspala?’
‘Not always,’ he admitted. ‘Sometimes I paint what I fear. All these faces — all these greats among the Tiste, you here included — you may think they are about each of you. Alas, they are just as much about me.’
‘I would not challenge that,’ Urusander replied. ‘It must be so with all artists.’
Kadaspala shrugged. ‘The artist is usually poorly disguised in his works, revealed in each and every flaw of execution. The self-confession is one of incompetence. But this is not my failing. What I reveal of myself in these works is less easily discerned. And before you enquire, Lord, no, I have no interest in elaborating on that.’
‘I imagine that those imitators in the Citadel will fail in repeating what you have captured here.’
‘I believe you are right, Lord.’
Urusander grunted. ‘Just as well. Come then, join me in one final meal. I believe you are soon to attend a wedding?’
Kadaspala rose from the chair. ‘Yes, Lord, my sister.’
They made their way out of the sitting room.
‘Andarist is a good man, Kadaspala.’
‘None would deny that,’ he replied, pleased at the ease with which those words flowed from his lips.
‘Your sister has become a most beautiful woman, or so I am told.’
‘She is that, Lord…’
There were people who feared solitude, but Cryl did not count himself among them. He sat astride his horse, the barren hills stretching out on all sides, a warm wind brushing across the grasses like the breath of a contented god. Near a jumble of half-buried stones there was a scatter of white bones, and set upon one of those boulders was the multi-tined rack of a bull eckalla. Slain by a hunter years past, the perched antlers pronounced the triumph of the kill.
It seemed a poignantly hollow triumph in Cryl’s eyes. The ancient tradition of hunting had been held aloft as a standard of virtue, emblazoned with the colours of courage, patience and skill. It was also a hand upon the beating heart of the earth, even if that hand was slick with blood. Challenges and contests of wits between Tiste and beast — when the truth was, it was rarely any contest at all. Unquestionably hunting for food was a sure and necessary instinct, but forms were born of pragmatic needs until such endeavours came to mean more than they once did. Now, hunting was seen as a rite of passage, when necessity had long since ceased.
It was a curiosity to Cryl that so many men and women, well along in their years, still found need to repeat those rites of passages, as if emotionally trapped in the transition from child to adult. He well understood the excitement of the chase, the sweet tension of the stalk, but for him these were not the reasons to hunt, while for many he knew that they had become just that.
Do we hunt to practise for war? The blood, the dying eyes of the slain… our terrible fascination with suffering? What vile core do we dip into in such moments? Why is the taste not too bitter to bear?
He had seen no sign of living eckalla, and he had ridden far from House Enes, far from sad Jaen and his excited daughter, far from the world of weddings, hostages and the ever growing tensions among the highborn, and yet even out here, among these hills beneath this vast sky, his kind found him, with trophies of death.
Years past, when he was still young enough to dream, he imagined setting out to discover a new world, a place without Tiste, without civilization, where he could live alone and unencumbered — no, perhaps not alone: he also saw her at his side, a companion in his great adventure. That world had the feel of the past, but a past no Tiste eye had witnessed, which made it innocent. And he would think of himself as prey, not predator, as if shedding the skin of brazen killer, and with this would come a thrill of fear.
In his weaker moments, Cryl still longed for that place, where freedom’s risks were plain to understand, and when he rode out from the estate, as he had done this time, vanishing into as much of the wild as remained, he found himself searching — not for eckalla, or their sign; not for wolves on the horizon or in the valleys; not for the hares and the hawks — but for a past he knew was for ever lost. Worse yet, it was a past he and his people did not belong in, and so could never know.