Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy #1)

Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy #1) Page 138

To Silchas’s pointed question, Emral said, ‘That depends, 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.’

‘I was unwise,’ admitted Anomander. ‘However, it is not me at risk of her ire, it is you. For that I apologize, High Priestess.’

‘No need, Lord. I have cut deeper than that many times.’

‘Yet in private, surely.’

She shrugged. ‘With all the spies in this court, I doubt “privacy” even exists.’

‘This is the danger of darkness,’ said Anomander. ‘The world made unseen invites intrigue.’

‘It is no easy thing,’ she said, ‘to carve faith from secular ambition, Lord. The birth of any religion is bound to be tumultuous.’

‘It would be more relaxed,’ said Anomander, as the sounds of people entering the far end of the corridor reached them, ‘if Draconus were here.’

And just as quickly, a single comment from him could uproot the world from beneath her feet. She made no reply, no longer trusting her own voice.

Hold up no mirror, lest you like not what you see.

As the river crested its banks, pouring murky water into the streets and alleys of Kharkanas, and as shock and alarm rippled ahead of the tide throughout the city, Caplo Dreem and Warlock Resh escorted T’riss on to the main avenue that led out from the wood. Crowds were pushing up from the streets, funnelled by the rising water behind them, and gathering like flotsam along the high ridge that fringed the floodplain, halfway between the city’s edge and the line of trees marking the forest.

Floods were seasonal events in Kharkanas, occurring in the spring. Here, in the depths of a dry summer, and arriving without warning, the upsurge was accompanied by a sense of superstitious fear.

Where the main avenue sloped downwards, crossing the bank of the ridge, refuse-littered water lapped the cobbles directly ahead. Caplo reined in and a moment later Resh followed suit. T’riss drew up immediately behind them. Beyond her, the Shake halted their mounts, silent and pale-faced, ignoring the queries from refugees nearby.

‘Azathanai,’ said Caplo. ‘Will your mount suffer in form, should we ride through this water?’

‘I will walk,’ she replied. ‘The river resists its imprisonment. In this it speaks a truth of nature.’

The warlock’s voice was harsh as he asked, ‘What will the river god demand of this city? Of Mother Dark herself? The banks are walled in stone. The bridges are built. The jetties and piers stand firm against the currents. Must it all be destroyed in the name of water’s freedom?’