Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy #1)

Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy #1) Page 259

Not that she had any. Nights of cooking over campfires had made scorched and smudged bludgeons of her hands. And for all her vehemence, her strength was gone, withered away by this seemingly endless trek. Her clothes and hair were filthy and stank of smoke.

Another square tower was just ahead, and this one Haut was making no effort to avoid and so she assumed that it too was abandoned. Another monument to failure. How I long for Kurald Galain!

When her master reached it, he halted and turned to Korya. ‘Prepare camp,’ he said. ‘Tonight we will sleep within, since there will be rain.’

She glared up at the cloudless sky, and then at the Jaghut.

‘Will the child doubt the adult in all things?’ he asked.

‘I trust,’ she said as she dropped the pack from her shoulders, ‘that was rhetorical.’

Haut pointed at a stunted tree outside the gaping entrance to the tower. ‘That shrub is called ilbarea.’

‘It’s dead.’

‘It does appear that way, yes. Collect a bag full of its leaves.’

‘Why?’

‘I see that you are in discomfort and ill-humour and so would remedy that. Not as much for your sake as for mine, since I have no desire to dodge barbs all night.’

‘I have questions, not barbs.’

‘And to grasp each one is to behold thorns. Collect the driest of the dead leaves and know that I do this for both of us.’

‘You just said-’

‘Bait to test your mood. The trap is sprung yet you still profess to a backbone and raised hackles. I will see you calmed and no longer so sickly-looking.’

‘Well, we can’t have your sensibilities so offended, can we?’ She rummaged in her pack and found a small sack that had once held tubers — ghastly tasting things even when boiled to a mush: she had thrown the rest away after the first night.

‘It is better,’ said Haut, ‘when you cook with enthusiasm.’

‘I thought we were hunting murderers,’ she said as she walked over to the shrub. ‘Instead we just walk and walk and get nowhere.’ She began plucking the dry, leathery leaves. ‘This will make wretched tea.’

‘I’m sure it would,’ he replied behind her. ‘Once you have filled the bag, we shall need a fire. There should be a wood pile behind the tower, in the yard. I have held on to a single bottle of wine and for that you will thank me, once you rediscover a thankful mood.’

‘I suggest you hold your breath while awaiting its arrival,’ she said, tugging at the leaves.

He grunted. ‘I have failed you with too much shelter, I now see. You are resilient in civil settings, yet frail in the wilds.’

‘You call this wild, master?’

‘You would deem it civilization, hostage?’

‘Civilization on its knees — if that roof proves dry to the nonexistent rain. I am far from enamoured, master, exploring this legacy of surrender. But this is only the wildness of neglect, and that is ever sordid for the tale it tells.’

‘True enough, there is nothing more sordid than civil failure, in particular its way of creeping up on one, in such minute increments as to pass unnoticed. If we are to deem civilization a form of progress, then how should it be measured?’

She sighed. Still more lessons. ‘You would engage an ill-tempered woman in debate, master?’

‘Hmm, true. Woman you are. Child no longer. Well, as I am bored, I will gird my armour and march into the perilous ferment of a woman’s fury.’

She so wanted to dislike him, but again and again it proved impossible. ‘The progress of civilization is measured in its gifts to labour and service. We are eased by the coalescing of intent, willingness and capability.’

‘Then how does one measure the stalling of said progress? Or indeed, its decline?’

‘Intent remains. Willingness fades and capability is called into question. Accord dissolves but blame is impossible to assign, leading to malaise, confusion and a vacuous resentment.’ The bag was stuffed full. Eyeing the shrub she was startled to see that upon every branch she had stripped bare new shoots had appeared, just as brown as the leaves they replaced. ‘What a ridiculous tree,’ she said.

‘Its disguise is death,’ said Haut. He had removed his gauntlets and was shrugging out from his surcoat of mail. ‘Give me the ilbarea, thus freeing your hands to collect wood.’

‘That is kind of you, master. But I wonder, if I am to be a mahybe, a vessel to be filled, why fill it with mundane tasks and seething frustration?’