Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy #1)

Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy #1) Page 335

Grizzin Farl bowed. ‘You have the truth of me,’ he said.

‘Mother Dark,’ said Anomander, ‘did you understand this?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘It seems that I asked the wrong questions of our guest. Confusion attended me, First Son, with misleading thoughts of the last Azathanai to stand before me.’

‘Of whom we know nothing,’ Anomander said. ‘Did this T’riss speak for the river god? Did you bargain with that rival and so win from it the sacrifice of a thousand souls?’

‘You insult us both,’ Mother Dark snapped. ‘We bargained peace between us.’

‘And what manner the currency of this exchange?’

‘Nothing of substance.’

‘Then, what manner this peace? Shall I describe it? The forest to the north might burn still, but the huts are surely silent. By that one might assert the blessing of peace, of a sort.’

‘We did not invite death between us!’

Emral saw how the goddess trembled with her rage, but Anomander seemed unaffected. ‘Grizzin Farl, what do you know of this T’riss?’

‘I know of no Azathanai by that name, First Son.’

‘Do you have her description?’

Grizzin Farl shrugged. ‘That signifies nothing. If I so desired, I could hover before you as a bird, or perhaps a butterfly.’ Then he frowned. ‘But you name her born of the Vitr. Two Azathanai set out to explore the mystery of that caustic sea.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is one of them.’

‘And the power she unveiled tells you nothing either?’

‘Only that it was uncommonly careless, and so not like an Azathanai at all. There are proscriptions against such blatant interference.’

‘Why?’

‘It is unhealthy for any Azathanai to invite the resentment of other Azathanai.’

‘And this the one named T’riss has done?’

‘So it seems, First Son.’

‘You are rather passive in your resentment, Grizzin Farl.’

‘I am not the one imposed upon, as the Tiste do not fall under my influence.’

Emral gasped as the implications of that comment settled in her mind. She looked to Mother Dark and was stunned to see no expression of surprise in her features.

Anomander stood like a man nailed to a wall, although nothing but empty air surrounded him. All at once, Emral felt her heart wrench for the First Son. He now stared fixedly at Mother Dark. ‘At last,’ he said, ‘I find the bitter truth to my title, Mother. A son you would have, but one swaddled and helpless, thinking only of your tit’s sweet milk.’

‘I cannot hasten your growth, First Son, by any other means.’

‘Yet you recoil at my sour breath.’

‘Only the hurtful words it carries.’

‘Are you then an Azathanai, Mother, deceitfully attired in the body of a Tiste woman we once all knew?’

‘I am that woman,’ she replied, ‘and no other.’

‘Then where stands your guardian, or has it made its flesh darkness itself?’

‘These questions are of no value,’ Mother Dark said. ‘I have summoned you, First Son, to send you to Lord Urusander. We will have the truth of his motives.’ She paused and then said, ‘Is this not what you wished?’

‘I will indeed march on Urusander,’ Anomander answered. ‘With the arrival of the Hust Legion.’

‘Do not wait for them,’ she said. ‘Ride to him now, beloved son. Meet with him.’

‘To stand within reach of him, Mother, I would need to wear chains with the weight of mountains, to keep my hands from the sword at my side. But then, would it be better if I simply disarmed myself outside his command tent, knelt and offered him the back of my neck?’

‘I do not believe he is in any way responsible for the murders of Lord Jaen and his daughter. Look him in the eye as he tells you the same, and together you may turn your ire upon the true slayers.’

‘Renegades from the disbanded units? Or would you have me offer up the pathetic possibility of Deniers with noble blood on their hands?’

‘It seems that I must do nothing but weather your scorn. Perhaps this is every mother’s lament.’

Anomander turned away, ‘My scorn, Mother, is not yet awakened. Indeed, you see before you a sleeping man, still lost to the night and troubling dreams. If I twitch, it but signals my helplessness. If I voice a moan, it is a sound empty of meaning. No brush of fingertips will prod me awake, and so I yearn for the knife’s sharp jab. The only question that remains is: who will wield that knife?’