‘Does the riktal un-man you, captain? I can call for wine if you prefer.’
‘In truth, Lord, I had forgotten that I had goblet in hand. I beg your pardon.’ Kellaras swallowed down another mouthful.
‘He wishes a blade of truth, then.’
‘One that demands the same in its wielder, yes. In concord, then, but a silent concord.’
Abruptly Henarald rose to his feet. He was tall, gaunt, yet he stood straight, as if the iron of his world was in his bones, his flesh. In the pits of his eyes now, nothing was visible from the low angle at which sat Kellaras. ‘Captain, there is chaos in every weapon. We who forge iron, indeed, all metal, we lock hands with that chaos. We fight it, seeking control and order, and it fights back, with open defiance and, when that fails, with hidden treachery. Your master seeks a blade devoid of chaos. Such a thing cannot be achieved, and the life I have spent is proof of that.’
Kellaras hesitated, and then said, ‘Lord, First Son Anomander is aware of the secret of the Hust swords. He knows what lies at the core of every weapon you now make. This is not the path he seeks in the making of his chosen sword. He requests that the spine of the blade be quenched in sorcery, in the purity of Darkness itself.’
The Lord of Hust Forge was motionless, the lines of his face seeming to deepen the longer he stared down at Kellaras. Then he spoke, in flat tones. ‘It is said that the sceptre I made for Mother Dark now possesses something of the soul of Kurald Galain. She has imbued it with sorcery. She has taken pure but plain iron and made it
… unnatural.’
‘Lord, I know little of that.’
‘It now embodies Darkness, in some manner few of us understand. Indeed, I wonder if even Mother Dark is fully aware of what she has done.’
The direction of this conversation was making Kellaras uneasy.
Henarald grunted. ‘Do I speak blasphemy?’
‘I would hope not, Lord.’
‘But now we must take care in what we say. It seems, captain, that as her power grows, her tolerance diminishes. They are like lodestones, pushing each other away. Does power not grant immunity? Does power not strengthen the armour; does power not find assurance in itself? Can it be that those who hold the most power also know the greatest fear?’
‘Lord, I cannot say.’
‘And yet, do not those who are most powerless also suffer from the same fear? What does power grant its wielder, then? Presumably, the means with which to challenge that fear. And yet, it would seem that it does not work, not for long, in any case. By this we must conclude that power is both meaningless and delusional.’
‘Lord, the Forulkan sought to extend their power over the Tiste. Had they succeeded, we would be either enslaved now, or dead. There is nothing delusional about power, and through the strength of our legions, including the Hust, we prevailed.’
‘If the Forulkan had won, what would they have achieved? Mastery over slaves? But let us be truthful here, captain. Not one Tiste would kneel in slavery. The Forulkan would have had no choice but to kill us all. I ask again, what would that have achieved? A triumph in solitude makes a hollow sound, and to every glory proclaimed the heavens make no answer.’
‘My master requests a sword.’
‘Pure and plain iron.’
‘Just so.’
‘To take the blood of Darkness.’
The captain’s brows rose. ‘Lord, her sorcery is not Azathanai.’
‘Isn’t it? She feeds her power, but how?’
‘Not by blood!’
Henarald studied Kellaras for a moment longer, and then he sat once more in his heavy, high-backed chair. He drained the goblet in his hand and set it down on the table. ‘I have breathed poison for so long, only riktal can burn through the scars on my throat. Age numbs us to feeling. We are dulled as black bedrock on a crag. Waiting for yet one more season of frost. Now that the First Son has discovered the secret of the Hust, will he barter his knowledge to suit his political ambitions?’
‘My master states as his sole ambition the desire never to yield to ignorance, Lord. Knowledge is all the reward he seeks, and its possession is the measure of his own wealth.’
‘Does he hoard it then?’
‘He understands that others would use such knowledge, in unseemly ways. I have known my master since we were both children, Lord, and I can tell you, no secrets pass through his hands.’
Henarald’s shrug was loose, careless, his eyes fixed on the floor somewhere to his right. ‘The secret of the Hust swords is in itself a thing without power. I held it close for… other reasons.’
‘To protect those who wield such weapons, yes, Lord. My master well understands that.’
The hooded gaze flicked over at Kellaras for a moment, and then away again. ‘I will make Anomander a sword,’ Henarald said. ‘But in the moment of its final quenching, I will attend. I will see for myself this sorcery. And if it is blood, then,’ he sighed, ‘then I will know.’
‘She dwells in Darkness,’ said Kellaras.
‘Then I shall see nothing?’
‘I believe, Lord, you shall see nothing.’
‘I think,’ said Henarald, ‘I begin to understand the nature of her power.’
Outside the chamber, Kellaras found that he was trembling. In the fraught exchange just past, it had been Henarald’s promise of a return to childhood that most disturbed the captain. He could make no sense of it, and yet he suspected some dreadful secret hid within that confession.
Muttering under his breath he pushed the unease away, and set out for the main hall at the corridor’s far end, where a hundred or more residents and guests of the house now dined, in a riotous clamour of voices and laughter, and the heat from the great hearth roiled in the chamber, filling the air with the heady smells of roasting pork. He would lose himself in that festive atmosphere, and should moments of doubt stir awake, he need only remind himself that he had won Henarald’s promise to forge a sword for his master, and then reach for another tankard of ale.
Striding into the main hall, Kellaras paused for a moment. New, unfamiliar faces swirled on all sides, dust-grimed and weary. A troop of Hust soldiers had arrived, returned from some patrol, and voices were loud as kin called greetings across the room. He scanned the crowd, seeking out Galar Baras, and moments later found the man, standing close to a side passage and leaning against the smoke-stained stone wall. Kellaras began making his way over, and then drew up when he finally noted his friend’s intent gaze, which was fixed upon one of the newcomers, a woman of rank who seemed to be the centre of much of the attention. She was smiling, listening to a bent old man too drunk to stay upright without the aid of a high-backed chair. When her gaze finally slipped past him, Kellaras saw her stiffen slightly upon meeting Galar’s eyes.
An instant later she was looking away again, and with one hand affectionately settling on the drunk’s shoulder, she eased past the old man and made her way towards another table, where her fellow soldiers were now settling in.
A harried servant was edging through the crowd, drawing close to where Kellaras stood, and the captain accosted the young man. ‘A word, please. Who is that woman? The officer?’
The servant’s brows lifted. ‘Toras Redone, sir, commander of the Hust Legion.’
‘Ah, of course. Thank you.’
He was certain he had seen her before, but always from a distance — upon a field of battle — and of course helmed and girded for war. She was not one for attending formal events in the Citadel, preferring instead to remain with her legion. It was said that she had arrived to kneel before Mother Dark in sweat-stained leathers, with dust upon her face — he’d thought that tale apocryphal, but now he was not so sure.
She sat now amongst her soldiers, a tankard in one hand, and for all the grime of hard travel upon her, he could see that she was beautiful, yet in a dissolute way, and when Kellaras watched her drain the flagon of ale and then reach for another, he was not surprised.