Forge of Darkness

SIX

Hust Henarald’s eyes were level and dark, as if to test the weight of the words he was about to speak, to see if they sank claws deep into the man seated opposite him, or merely slipped past. The low light sculpted out the hollows of his cheeks, and above the prominent bones flaring out from his narrow, hooked nose those sharp eyes seemed to have retreated far in their shadowy recesses, yet remained piercing and intent. ‘One day,’ he said, voice rough from years at the forge, in the midst of bitter smoke and acrid steam, ‘I will be a child again.’ He slowly leaned back, withdrawing from the oil lamp’s light on the table, until he seemed to Kellaras more a ghostly apparition than a mortal man.

From outside this overheated chamber, the great machines of the bellows thundered like an incessant heart, the reverberations rolling through every stone of the Great House. The sound never fell away — in all the days and nights Kellaras had been guest to the Lord of Hust Forge, he had felt this drum of industry, beating the pulse of earth and stone, of fire and smoke.

This was, he had begun to believe, a place of elemental secrets, where truths roiled in the swirling heat, the miasmic tempest of creation and destruction clamouring without surcease on all sides; and this man, who had finally granted him audience, now sat across from him, in a high-backed chair shrouded in shadows, both lord and arbiter, ruler and sage, and yet his first words uttered had been… nonsense.

Henarald might have smiled then, but it was difficult to see in the gloom. ‘One day, I will be a child again. Carved toys will caper and dance from my mind, out across rock I will raise as mountains. Through grasses I will proclaim forests. For too long I have been trapped in this world of measures, proportions and scale. For too long I have known and understood the limits of what is possible, so cruel in rejecting all that can be imagined. In this way, friend, we are each of us not one but two lives, for ever locked in mortal combat, and from all things at hand, we make weapons.’

Kellaras slowly reached for the goblet of riktal on the tabletop before him. The spirit was fire in the throat and the only alcohol the Lord was purported to drink, but Kellaras’s first mouthful still rocked through his brain.

‘You hide your sudden acuity well, captain, but I well noted your intensity when I spoke the word “weapons”. To this you cleave, for among the words I have spoken, this alone you understand. I was speaking of all that we lose as the years crawl over us and the past — our youth — falls away.’ He closed both hands round his goblet, and those hands were massive, scarred and blunted, shiny in places from deep burns acquired over a lifetime at his forge. ‘Your lord wishes from me a sword. As a gift? Or does he seek to join the Hust Legion, perhaps. I cannot imagine Urusander’s supporters would be much pleased by a proclamation so overt.’

Kellaras struggled for a reply. Henarald’s easy shift from the poetic to the pragmatic left him feeling wrong-footed. His thoughts felt clumsy, like a child’s when confounded by a puzzle box.

But the Hust lord was of no mind to await a reply. ‘When I am a child again, the grown-ups will retreat from my eye. Drifting away into their own worlds and leaving me to mine. In their absence I am filled with trust and I reorder the scale of things to suit my modest command. Time yields its grip and I play until it is time to sleep.’ Henarald paused to drink. ‘And should I dream, it will be of surrender.’

After a long moment, Kellaras cleared his throat. ‘Lord, my master well understands that such a commission is, at this time, unusual.’

‘There was a time when it was anything but unusual. But to call it so now is too coy for my liking. A commission for a sword from the First Son of Darkness cannot help but be seen as political. Will my acquiescence unleash rumours of secret allegiance and conspiracy? What snare does Anomander set in my path?’

‘None, Lord. His desire reaches back to the honour of tradition.’

Brows slowly lifted. ‘His words, or your own?’

‘Such was my understanding, Lord, with respect to the First Son’s motivations.’

‘In choosing you, he chose well. One day I will be a child again.’ Then he leaned forward. ‘But not yet.’ The sharpness of Henarald’s gaze glittered like diamond shards. ‘Captain Kellaras, has your master specific instructions as to this blade of his desire?’

‘Lord, he would it be a silent weapon.’

‘Ha! Does the cry of the sword’s supple spine unnerve him, then?’

‘No, Lord, it does not.’

‘Yet he would prefer a gagged weapon, cut mute, a weapon cursed to howl and weep unheard by any.’

‘Lord,’ said Kellaras, ‘the weapon you describe leads me to wonder which is the greatest torment, silence or a voice for its pain?’

‘Captain, the weapon I describe does not exist. Yet those fools in Urusander’s Legion would tell you otherwise. Tell me, will your master hide the origin of his blade?’

‘Of course not, Lord.’

‘Yet he would have it muted.’

‘Must all truths be spoken, Lord?’

‘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.

He considered paying his respects, then decided that this was not the time, and so he continued making his way towards Galar Baras.

‘You look rattled, captain,’ Galar said when he drew close.

Not half as much as you, friend. ‘I have just come from my audience with your lord.’

‘And did he speak to you of childhood?’

‘He did, though I admit to my failing to make sense of it.’

‘And the other matter?’

‘My master will be most pleased. I see you have no drink in hand — I feel bold enough to assail the ale bench-’

‘Not on my account, captain. I cannot stomach it, I’m afraid. I see your surprise — what veteran cannot drink, you wonder? Why, I will answer you: a sober one.’

‘Does this prevent you from sharing in the festivities? I see you standing apart, as if outcast. Come, let us find somewhere to sit.’

Galar’s smile was faint, with a hint of sadness in his eyes. ‘If you insist.’

They made their way to a table, Kellaras choosing one close to the servants’ entrance where a score of used flagons crowded the surface. As they sat he said, ‘Can you explain, then, your lord’s obsession with becoming a child once more?’

Galar Baras seemed to hesitate, and then he leaned close, one forearm pushing the flagons to one side. ‘It is troubling to us all, captain-’

‘Please, call me Kellaras.’

‘Very well. Kellaras. Something afflicts Henarald, at least in his own mind. He claims he is losing his memories, not of distant times, but of the day just past, or indeed the morning just done. Yet we do not see it, not yet in any case. There is an illness that takes smiths. Some believe it resides in the fumes from the forge, in the steam from quenching, or the molten drops of ore that burn the skin. It is called the Loss of Iron-’

‘I have indeed heard of this,’ Kellaras replied. ‘Yet I tell you, after my audience with your lord, I saw nothing afflicting his intellect. Rather, he speaks in abstractions, in the language of poets. When the subject demands precision, his wit sharpens quickly. This requires a facility, a definite acuity of the mind.’

Galar Baras shrugged. ‘I reveal no secrets here, Kellaras. The rumour is long out — our lord feels afflicted, and the keenness of his intelligence, that you so surely describe, is to him evidence of the war he wages with himself, with the failings he senses besieging him. He strikes out with precision to battle the blunting of memories.’

‘I had first thought that he feared this return to childhood,’ Kellaras said, frowning. ‘But I began to suspect that he will welcome it, should it come to him. A release from all the fraught things of the adult world.’

‘You may well be right,’ Galar admitted. ‘Will you report to your master on this matter?’

‘He has promised Anomander a sword — do his skills fail him?’

‘No, we have seen nothing like that.’

‘Then Lord Henarald’s fears for his own health have no bearing on the commission.’

‘I thank you, Kellaras.’

Kellaras waved the gratitude away. ‘Besides, I could tell you my master’s likely response should he hear of your lord’s assertions.’

‘Oh, and what would he say?’

‘I imagine he would nod most thoughtfully, and then say: “There is much to be said for a return to childhood.”’

After a moment, Galar smiled, and this time there was no sadness to be found in it.

Kellaras drank his fair share of ale and offered up easy company that did much to ease the turmoil in Galar Baras’s soul, and when at last the captain rose, slurring his words of departure, and made his way unsteadily from the chamber, Galar was left alone once more, helpless to fend off the pain caused by the sight of Toras Redone.

The room was quieter now; the candles little more than stumps, as weary servants cleared plates and tankards, with only a few tables still occupied. She still held command of one of those tables, although her compatriots were drifting off where they slumped in their chairs, and when she at last rose, wavering for but a moment, and made her way over to Galar, only then did he realize that he had been waiting for her. And that she had known it.

‘How fares your courage, Galar Baras?’ Alcohol had rounded her words in a way he well recalled.

He watched as she took the chair Kellaras had been sitting in earlier. Stretching her legs out, the mud-caked boots edging towards his own leg upon the right, she folded her hands on her lap and regarded him with red-shot eyes.

‘You have come from the south?’ he asked.

‘Where else? Patrolling the Forulkan border.’

‘Any trouble?’

She shook her head. ‘Quiet. Not like the old days. But then, nothing is, is it?’

‘We must all move on, yes.’

‘Oh, people do that, don’t they. Consider my husband — could he have gone any further away than he has? Glimmer Fate, seasonal forts, a handful of the lost and broken to command. This would be true service to the realm; you’d have to say that, wouldn’t you?’

He studied her. ‘It is a great responsibility.’

Abruptly she laughed, broke his gaze to look away. Her right hand drummed a rattle of taps on the tabletop and then fell still once more. ‘We all skirt the borderlands, as if to test our limits.’

‘Not all of us,’ he replied.

She glanced at him, then away again. ‘You are a pariah in the Citadel. They think you arrogant and dismissive, but that’s not you, Galar. It never was.’

‘It seems I have little in common with the Citadel’s denizens.’

‘We chose you for that very reason.’

He considered that, and then sighed.

She leaned forward. ‘It wasn’t punishment, Galar. It was never that.’

But it was, and he knew it.

‘You could at least take a priestess to your bed, you know. Leave the celibates staring at walls in their monasteries; that’s not the way for people like us. We’re soldiers and we have the appetites to match.’

‘And are you well fed these days, Toras?’

As usual, his barb had no effect upon her. ‘Well enough,’ she replied, leaning back once more. ‘You probably would not understand this, but it is my very certainty that my husband has remained true that drives me to do as I do.’

‘You are right — I do not understand that at all.’

‘I am not his equal. I had no hope of becoming that, not from the very start. I walked the trench at his side, always. That’s not an easy thing to live with, not day after day.’

‘There was no trench, Toras. None saw you as his lesser — you command the Hust Legion, for Abyss’ sake.’

‘This has nothing to do with military rank, or achievements.’

‘Then what?’

But she shook her head. ‘I have missed you, Galar.’

All of this without once meeting his gaze. He had no idea if others were watching, or even striving to listen in on this conversation. He did not think it likely. Servants had brought rushes into the room to set out upon the floor. Someone was singing drunkenly, forgetting lines, and laughter echoed. Woodsmoke hung heavy, stinging his eyes. He shrugged. ‘What is to be done, then?’

She rose, slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Go to your room. It’s late.’

‘And you?’

Smiling, she wheeled away. ‘That’s the thing about courage, isn’t it?’

He watched her return to her original seat, watched her pour full the tankard in front of her, and he knew that he would not spend this night alone. As he stood and made his way out of the chamber, he thought of his quarters in the Citadel, and the narrow bed he would not share with any priestesses; and then he thought of Calat Hustain, lying on a cot in some northern fort. Two men dwelling in solitude, because it was in their nature to choose it: to remain alone in the absence of love.

And the woman these two men shared, why, she understood nothing.

Over the past three days, Kadaspala had been spared the company of Hunn Raal and Osserc. He’d not even seen them ride out, and Urusander had made no mention of where they had gone, or to what purpose. This was satisfying, as it left him to work on the portrait without suffering the assault of ignorant commentary, unsolicited advice, or inane conversations at the evening meal. Unshackled from the expectations of his cadre, Urusander was a different man, and their arguments over a host of subjects had proved mildly entertaining, almost enlivening, so much so that Kadaspala had begun looking forward to the meals they took at day’s end.

Still, the situation galled him. Work left him impatient, irritated and dissatisfied. At each sitting’s conclusion he fought to keep from slumping in exhaustion, instead applying himself with diligence to the cleaning of his brushes, his mind tracking the lines of the charcoal studies he referred to again and again when gauging the image on the board — he did not have to actually look at the vellum sheets, so fiercely were they burned into his mind’s eye. Urusander’s face haunted him, as did each subject he painted, but this time it felt different.

There was political intent to all works of art, but this one was too brazen, too bold, as far as he was concerned, and so he found his hand and eye fighting that overt crudity, with a shifting of tones, a deepening of certain lines, with a symbolic language only he understood.

Painting is war. Art is war.

His colleagues would recoil in horror at such notions. But then, they were mostly fools. Only Gallan would understand. Only Gallan would nod and perhaps even smile. There were so many ways to wage a battle. Weapons of beauty, weapons of discord. Fields of engagement across a landscape, or in the folds of a hanging curtain. Lines of resistance, knots of ambush, the assault of colour, the retreat of perspective. So many ways to fight, and yet every victory felt like surrender — he had no power over a stranger’s eyes, after all, and if art could lay siege to a stranger’s soul, it was a blind advance against unseen walls.

This portrait of Urusander — which he now sat facing, as the last of the night’s candles flickered and wavered — bore all of Kadaspala’s wounds, yet who might see that? No one, not even Gallan. One learns to hide the damage taken, and an eye pleased is an eye seduced.

And Urusander was well pleased indeed.

He was done. He would leave with the dawn. I have painted a man worthy of being her husband. They will see his strength, his resolute integrity, because these lie on the surface. They will not see the underside of such things — the cruelty beneath strength, the cold pride behind that stern resolution. The blade of judgement grasped firm in integrity’s hand.

They will see in his stance his soldier’s discipline, and the burdens assumed without complaint. Yet see nothing of withered empathy or unreasonable expectation.

In the tones they will find warmth with but a hint of the underlying metal, and in so seeing they will understand nothing of that melding of fire and iron and all that it promises.

My power is vast, the talent undeniable, the vision sure and true. Yet all it leaves me is torment. There is but one god, and its name is beauty. There is but one kind of worship, and that is love. There is for us but one world, and we have scarred it beyond recognition.

Art is the language of the tormented, but the world is blind to that, for ever blind.

Urusander, I see you — I face you now — in the failing light, and you frighten me to the core.

‘You will not dine with me on this last night?’

Startled, it was a moment before Kadaspala turned in his chair to face Lord Urusander. ‘For an instant, Lord, as you spoke, I thought I saw the mouth of your portrait shaping your words. Most… disconcerting.’

‘I imagine it would be, yes. You have fashioned a true likeness.’

Kadaspala nodded.

‘Will you copy it yourself in the Hall?’

‘No, Lord. The Citadel’s artists will do that. They are chosen especially for their skills at imitation. When they are done, this painting will be returned to you here — or wherever you end up residing.’

To that Urusander said nothing for a time. He walked slowly closer to where sat Kadaspala, his hooded gaze on the portrait. Then he sighed. ‘Where I reside. Do I appear so displeased with my present abode?’

‘I saw nothing of that, Lord.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. Yet,’ and he gestured, ‘you would have me… elsewhere.’

Faint bells chimed to announce dinner, but neither man moved. ‘Lord, it is a portrait of you, by the hand of Kadaspala, who has turned down a hundred commissions.’

‘That many?’

‘Those denied do not announce their failure, Lord.’

‘No, I suppose they wouldn’t. Very well, then, why did you accept this one?’

‘I had a thought.’

‘Indeed, and will you tell me that thought, Kadaspala?’

‘If anyone can prevent civil war’ — and he nodded towards the portrait — ‘it is that man.’

Breath hissed from Urusander and his words were harsh with frustration. ‘This is all madness! If the nobility so resent the Consort, then they should challenge Mother Dark herself!’

‘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.

He had been trained for war just as he had been taught how to hunt and how to slay, and these were deemed necessary skills in preparation for adulthood. How sad was that?

His horse’s ears flicked and then tilted. Cryl rose to stand in his stirrups, scanned the horizon in the direction of the horse’s sudden attention.

A troop of riders coming down from the north. Their appearance startled him. He could see that they were Tiste, wearing armour but bareheaded, helms strapped to the saddles.

The only settlement remotely close was Sedis Hold, at least three days to the northwest, and these riders would have had to cross Young Dorssan Ryl, a difficult task at any time of year, when it would have been simpler to remain on the road on the river’s other side, which would take them down past House Dracons and thence onward to Kharkanas. There was no reason for such a risky crossing when solid bridges beckoned to the south.

Cryl’s mind raced, trying to recall who was stationed in Sedis Hold. The keep had been raised at the close of the war against the Jheleck. A garrison was ensconced there permanently, ever since the defeated Jheleck had thought to resume their raiding — as if the war had never happened.

The riders were drawing closer, but not in any haste; indeed, they seemed to be leading a score of individuals on foot.

Nudging his horse round to face the newcomers, Cryl hesitated a moment, and then rode towards them. As he approached, he saw that those figures on foot, trailing the riders, were all children, and, even more astonishing, they were Jheleck.

He could see no chains linking the captives, and each child appeared to be burdened under hide sacks of, presumably, possessions.

The Tiste riders amounted to a score of regular soldiers, a sergeant and, at the forefront of the troop, a captain. This man’s eyes were intent, studying Cryl as if looking for something in particular. Evidently failing to find it, he visibly relaxed, and then held up a hand to halt those behind him.

‘You journey far,’ the captain said. ‘Do you seek to deliver a message to Sedis Hold?’

Cryl shook his head. ‘No sir. To do that, I would be upon the other side of the river.’

‘Then what brings a young highborn out wandering these hills?’

It seemed, then, that this captain was determined to ignore the matter of their all being on the wrong side of the river. Cryl shrugged. ‘I am Cryl Durav, hostage to-’

‘House Enes.’ The captain’s lean, weathered face broke into a smile. ‘Is it a rude guess that you fled the frenzied preparations for marriage?’

‘Excuse me?’

The man laughed. ‘I am Captain Scara Bandaris, Cryl. My journey into the south is twofold.’ He gestured at the Jheleck children. ‘One, to find out what to do with this first gaggle of hostages. And here we thought we’d face another war before the Jheleck ever surrendered a single child of theirs. Imagine our surprise.’

‘And the other reason, sir?’

‘Why, to attend the ceremony, of course. It so pleases me to know that Andarist is upon the very cusp of wedded bliss. Now, will you escort us to House Enes? I would hear of Jaen’s lovely daughter, whom you have grown alongside all these years.’

Cryl knew the name of Scara Bandaris, an officer who had fought with distinction in the wars. What he had not known was that he had been posted in Sedis. ‘As hostage to House Enes, sir, it would be my honour to escort you. I have tarried in these wilds long enough, I suppose.’ He brought his mount round as the captain waved his troop forward once more.

Scara Bandaris rode up alongside him. ‘If I were in your place, Cryl Durav, I might well be seeking an empty cave among the hermits of the north crags. A young woman about to be wed — whom you have known for so long now — well, have I guessed wrong as to your motives?’

‘My motives, sir?’

‘Out into the wilds, alone and blissfully at peace — you have been gone some days, I wager.’

Cryl sighed. ‘You see the truth of it, sir.’

‘Then we’ll speak no more of wounded hearts. Nor will I torture you with questions about Enesdia. Tell me, have you seen any eckalla?’

‘None living, sir,’ Cryl replied. He glanced back at the Jheleck children.

Scara Bandaris grunted. ‘Better on two feet than four, I tell you.’

‘Sir?’

‘Twenty-five whelps, Cryl, that no leash can hold. We shall raise wolves in our midst with these ones.’

‘I have heard, not quite wolves…’

‘True enough. Hounds, then. This tradition of hostage taking, so venerated and inviolate, may well come back to bite us.’

Cryl shot the man a look.

Scara Bandaris burst out laughing, forcing up a smile from Cryl.

Perhaps, Cryl reconsidered after a moment, with jests erupting from the soldiers behind them, followed by yet more laughter, his need for solitude was at an end.

‘ Where is he? ’

The cry made the handmaids flinch back, a detail that savagely pleased Enesdia, if only momentarily. ‘How dare he run away? And Father does nothing! Have we ceased to respect the ancient tradition of hostages, to so let him vanish into the wilds like some half-wild dog?’ The array of blank faces regarding her only frustrated Enesdia the more. Hissing under her breath, she marched from the room, leaving the handmaids to scurry after her. A gesture halted them all. ‘Leave me, all of you.’

After a lengthy, increasingly irritating search, she found her father out behind the stables, observing the breaking of a horse in the corral. ‘Father, are we to lead the way in the rejection of all valued traditions among our people?’

Jaen regarded her with raised brows. ‘That strikes me as somewhat

… ambitious, daughter. Best I leave such things to the next generation, yes?’

‘Then why have we abandoned our responsibilities with respect to our hostage?’

‘I was unaware that we had, Enesdia.’

‘Cryl has vanished — for days! For all you know he could be lying at the bottom of a well, legs shattered and dying of thirst.’

‘Dying of thirst in a well?’

She glared at him until he relented and said, ‘I sent him in search of eckalla in the hills.’

‘A hopeless quest!’

‘No doubt, but I imagine he is familiar with those.’

‘What do you mean?’

Jaen shrugged, eyes once more on the horse as it fast-trotted round its handler, hoofs kicking up dust. ‘This is your time, not his. In fact, his sojourn with our family is coming to an end. It well suits him to stretch his lead, as it does every young man at his age.’

She disliked hearing such things. Cryl was her companion, a brother in every way but blood. She struggled to imagine life without him at her side, and she felt a tremor of rising shock as it suddenly struck her that, once she was married, her time with Cryl would be truly at an end. After all, had she really been expecting him to join them in the new house? Absurd.

So much had been happening, devouring her every thought; only now was she thinking things through. ‘But I miss him,’ she said. Hearing the weakness of her own voice misted her eyes.

Her father faced her. ‘Darling,’ he said, taking her arm and leading her away from the railing. ‘A changing world is a most frightening thing-’

‘I’m not frightened.’

‘Well, perhaps “bewildering” is a better description.’

‘He’s just… grown past me. That’s all.’

‘I doubt he sees it that way. You have made your choice, Enesdia, and the path before you is now certain, and the man who will walk at your side awaits you. It is time for Cryl to find his own future.’

‘What will he do? Has he spoken to you? He’s said nothing to me — he doesn’t say anything to me any more. It’s as if he doesn’t even like me.’

They were returning to the Great House, Jaen electing to use a side entrance, a narrow passageway leading into an enclosed garden. ‘His feelings for you are unchanged, but just as you set off into your new direction — away from this house — so too must Cryl. He will return to his own family, and it is there that his future will be decided.’

‘The Duravs — they are all soldiers. Cryl has only one brother left alive. The wars almost destroyed that family. He’ll take up the sword. He’ll follow in Spinnock’s footsteps. Such a waste!’

‘We are no longer at war, Enesdia. The risks are not what they once were, and for that we can all be thankful. In any case, the youngest born among the nobility have few recourses these days.’

They stood in the garden, in still air made cool by the raised pond commanding the centre. The fruit trees trained up two of the inner walls were laden with heavy, lush fruit, the purple globes looking like dusty glass. She thought, if one should fall in the next moment, it might shatter. ‘I have been unmindful, Father. Selfish. We are parting, and it will be difficult for both of us.’

‘Indeed.’

She looked up at him. ‘And even worse for you — is not Cryl the son you never had? This house will seem so… empty.’

Jaen smiled. ‘An old man treasures his peace and quiet.’

‘Oh? So you cannot wait to be rid of us?’

‘Now you have the truth of it.’

‘Well, then I’ll not spare your feelings another thought.’

‘Better. Now, return to your maids, lest they make mischief.’

‘They can wait a while longer — I wish to stay here for a time. I need to think.’

Still smiling, her father departed the garden.

I could ask Andarist to offer Cryl a commission. In the Citadel Wards. Somewhere safe. It will be my gift to Cryl. A gift that he will never know about. He will have Andarist as his commander — or will it be Anomander? No matter. He could advance far.

She walked to the nearest tree, reached out and took hold of a globe of fruit. Soft, ripe. She twisted it loose. See? No risk of shattering. Nothing like that at all. She felt something wet trickling down her hand. Gentle as she had been, the skin had split.

Oh, now I am stained!

Annoyed, Enesdia flung the fruit into the pond, the splash loud as a retort.

A commission for Cryl. She would have to work hard at hiding her intentions — he seemed to see right through her.

It’s good that he’s gone away.

The estate road joined the track leading east, and it was there that Orfantal waited, standing beside a slope-backed nag purchased in Abara Delack, at his side the stable boy, Wreneck, a sour dog-faced boy with greasy hair and a constellation of acne on his broad, flat brow. There had been a time, not so long ago, when Wreneck played with Orfantal, and for those few months — shortly after the fire when the responsibilities of a stable boy more or less ceased to exist — Orfantal had discovered the pleasures of friendship, and in the shambling stable boy an agreeable companion in his imagined wars and battles. But then something had happened and Wreneck grew taciturn and, on occasion, cruel.

Now the boy stood stroking the nag’s neck, impatient with the wait as the day’s heat built and the sun’s glare sharpened. There was no shade to be found barring that cast by the horse. They had stood in this place since shortly after dawn, circled by three feral dogs from town drawn by the smell of the fresh bread and egg pie the servants had made up for Orfantal’s lunch, which filled the small hessian bag he clutched in one hand.

There had been no conversation. At ten years, Wreneck was twice Orfantal’s age and it seemed that this span of years had become vast, over which no bridge of words could cross. Orfantal thought long and hard on what he might have done to offend Wreneck, but he could think of no way to broach the subject. The stable boy’s expression was closed, almost hostile, all his interest seemingly consumed by the somnolent horse at his side.

His legs growing tired, Orfantal went to sit down on the travel trunk containing his clothes, wooden swords and the dozen lead toy soldiers he owned — four Tiste and three Jheleck and five Forulkan, none painted, as his grandmother had concluded that if given paints he would make a mess of the tabletop. He had been astonished to discover that all of his possessions fit into the single, small trunk that had once held his grandfather’s war gear — with room to spare. Indeed, he thought he could fit himself into that trunk, and make of his entire life a thing to be carried about, passed from hand to hand, or flung into the ditch and left behind and forgotten by the whole world.

Wreneck wouldn’t mind. His mother wouldn’t mind; and his grandmother, who was sending him away, might well be pleased to see the last of him. He wasn’t sure, in truth, where he was going, only that it was away, to a place where he would be taught things and be made into a grown-up. Eyeing Wreneck askance, he tried to imagine himself as old as the stable boy, finding the year that unhappiness came to every boy’s life, and feeling his own features sag into that angry, helpless expression. And ten years later, his face would find a new set, to match the sadness of his mother.

Hundreds of years after that, he saw himself with his grandmother’s face, bearing the look that always reminded him of a hawk eyeing a field mouse speared to the ground by its talons. This was the path to adulthood, he supposed, and Grandmother was sending him off to learn how to live with what everyone had to live with, the steps of growing up, all the faces to find in his own.

A rumble in the road lifted him to his feet, looking west to see a troop of riders and two heavily burdened wagons appear from the dusty haze. The wagons were stacked high in sheep and goat skins, from the culled herds outside Abara Delack, destined for somewhere to the south. This was to be his escort.

Wreneck spoke behind him. ‘That’s them.’

Orfantal nodded. He fought the urge to take Wreneck’s hand, knowing the boy would sneer and bat his away. When he’d left the Great House this morning, his grandmother’s only touch had been a bony hand upon his back, pushing him forward and into Wreneck’s care.

‘You can go,’ Orfantal said as the stable boy came round to stand beside him.

But Wreneck shook his head. ‘I’m to make sure you’re on the horse, and that the trunk’s properly loaded. And that they know where to leave you.’

‘But didn’t Grandmother arrange all that?’

Wreneck nodded. ‘Still, I’m to make sure.’

‘All right.’ Though he would not say it, Orfantal was glad of the company. He did not recognize any of the riders, after all; they looked dusty and in bad moods as they rode up and reined in, their hooded gazes fixed upon Orfantal.

One gestured to the trunk as the wagons trundled up, and another rider, old and scar-faced, dismounted to collect it. When he crouched to lift it he had been clearly expecting something heavier, and almost tipped on to his backside when he straightened. He shot Orfantal a quizzical look before carrying the trunk to the first wagon, where the driver reached down and heaved it up to position it behind the backboard of his bench.

Wreneck’s voice was strangely timid as he said, ‘The Citadel. He is nobleborn.’

The lead rider simply nodded.

Turning to Orfantal, Wreneck said, ‘Let me help you on to the horse. Her left eye is bad, so she angles to the right. Keep her head tight and stay on the left side of the track — no horse on her left, I mean, as that spooks her.’

‘I understand.’

Wreneck’s scowl deepened. ‘You’ve never ridden this far all at once. You’ll be sore, but her back’s broad enough and you got a wide saddle here, so if you need to, you can sit cross-legged on her for a break.’

‘All right.’

The stable boy almost threw Orfantal up astride the nag, checked the stirrups once again, and then stepped back. ‘That’s it,’ he said.

Orfantal hesitated, and then said, ‘Goodbye, Wreneck.’

The boy turned away, flinging a wave behind him as he set off up the hill back towards the estate.

‘We ain’t going so fast,’ the lead rider now said. ‘She’ll walk, won’t she?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Sir?’ The man snorted. He took his reins and nudged his mount forward.

Orfantal waited until his mounted companions were past and then kicked his horse into their wake, keeping the beast on the left side of the track. Behind him the oxen jolted into motion at a switch from the driver.

The three wild dogs ran off, as if fearing stones or arrows.

Wreneck paused on the slope and turned to watch them leave. The tears ran down cool on his cheeks and flies buzzed close.

Back to that evil hag now, and no Orfantal to make life easier, to make it better than it was. She’d forbidden him to play with the little boy, and that was mean. She’d told him if she saw him even so much as talking to Orfantal, he’d lose what was left of his job, and then his ma and da would starve and so too his little sisters.

He’d liked playing with the boy. It had reminded him of happier times, when the war was over and things seemed to be getting better for everyone. But then the stables burned down and they’d all heard that Sandalath was being sent away, and then Orfantal too, and the food in the kitchen wasn’t as good as it used to be and half the staff was sent off.

And this was a miserable day, and Orfantal had looked so… lost.

He should have defied her. He should have wrapped the runt in a big hug. They could have played together all morning while they waited. But he had been afraid. Of her. Of what she might do. But maybe this was better — if he’d showed any kindness then this parting would have been worse for Orfantal. A part of him railed at the thought, but he held to it. To ease his mind.

The dogs returned, and, heads slung low, trailed him all the way back to the estate.

It was dusk by the time the caravan arrived outside Toras Keep, setting up camp in the clearing on the other side of the track opposite the keep’s gate. Blistered and sore from the ride, Orfantal clambered down from the horse. The scarred old man who’d loaded the trunk now came up to take the reins from his hands.

‘Likely her last journey,’ he said, pulling the mount away.

Orfantal stared after them. Riding the animal for so long, he had almost forgotten that it was a living creature, the way it had plodded without surcease. He thought about its life, wondered what things it had witnessed in its long journey through the years. The eyes looked sad — Wreneck hadn’t even told him the mare’s name. He was sure it had one. All living things did, at least those living things that worked for people.

He decided that the mare had once served a warrior in the wars, and had saved that Tiste countless times, yet had looked on helpless when betrayal came to strike down that brave warrior. This was why its eyes were so sad, and now all it longed to do was die, and in so dying re-join its master to haunt old battle grounds and ride through the mist on moonless nights so that villagers heard the heavy hoofs yet saw nothing, and no tracks were left in the mud come the morning. Still, villagers would know that a bold spirit had passed them in the darkness, and they would take up small stones from the path to ease its nightly travels. He’d seen such stones even on this track, in small heaps left to one side, because everyone knew that death was a restless place.

The leader of the troop now approached Orfantal. ‘My name is Haral. You don’t call me “sir” because I ain’t one. I guard merchants and that’s all I do.’

‘Are there bandits?’ Orfantal asked.

‘In the hills round Tulas Hold, sometimes. Deniers. Now, you’ll be sharing Gripp’s tent — that’s the man taking care of your horse. You can trust him, when maybe some of these here you can’t, not with a little boy in the night. Even with you nobleborn and all. Some hurts people keep secret and that’s what bad ones rely on, you see?’

Orfantal didn’t, but he nodded anyway.

‘They’re happy for the work, though, so they know if they cross me it’ll be misery for them. Still, I lost most of my regulars. Went to join Dracons’ Houseblades. I’m doing the same,’ he added, his weathered eyes narrowing as he looked across to the high blackstone walls of Toras Keep. A lone guard was seated on a bench beside the high gate, seemingly watching them all. ‘This is my last trip.’

‘Were you a soldier once, Haral?’

The man glanced down. ‘In my generation, few weren’t.’

‘My name is Orfantal.’

A scowl twisted his rough features. ‘Why’d she do that?’

‘Who, what?’

‘Your mother. That’s Yedan dialect — the monks’ holy language. Shake, it’s called.’

Orfantal shrugged.

One of the guards, who was crouching to build the cookfire nearby and clearly had been listening in, snorted a laugh and said, ‘Means “unwanted”, lad. If that don’t say it all and you off to Kharkanas.’

Haral turned on the man. ‘I’ll be glad to see the end of you in my company, Narad. From now on, this trip, keep your damned mouth shut.’

‘Fine, as I’m still taking orders from you, but like you say, Haral, that won’t last much longer.’

‘He’s got the meaning wrong,’ Haral said to Orfantal. ‘The meaning’s more obscure, if you like. More like “unexpected”.’

Narad snorted again.

The toe of Haral’s heavy boot snapped Narad’s head to one side in a spray of blood. Dark-faced but silent, Haral then walked up to where the man writhed on the ground. He grasped hold of the long greasy hair and yanked the head up so that he could look into Narad’s face. He drove his fist into it, shattering the nose. A second punch slammed the mouth so hard against the teeth that Orfantal saw — through all the blood — the glint of white stitching a line beneath the man’s lower lip. Haral then threw the unconscious man back on to the ground and walked away without a backward glance.

The others stood motionless for a half-dozen heartbeats, and then one walked over to drag Narad away from the smouldering fire.

Orfantal could barely draw a breath. A fist was hammering inside his chest. He found that he was trembling, as if caught with fever.

Gripp was at his side. ‘Easy there,’ he muttered. ‘It’s discipline, that’s all it is. Narad’s been pushing for weeks. We all knew it was coming and Abyss knows, we warned the fool enough. But he’s the dog that ain’t got brains enough to know its place. Sooner or later, y’got to kick ’im, and kick hard.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘I doubt it. If he ain’t come around by the morning, we’ll just leave him here. He lives or dies by his own straw. He just spat in the face of all the rest — me, I woulda left him toasting on the damned fire. Now, let me show you how to raise a tent. Skills like that might come in handy one day.’

In Orfantal’s mind, the faceless betrayer in all his battles now found a face, and a name. Narad, whom nobody wanted, who lived with a stuttered line of scars between chin and mouth, like a cruel smile he could never hide.

Emerging out from the hills, Master-at-arms Ivis and his company came within sight of Dracons Hold, its heavy bulk like a gnarled fist resting on the hard ground. He glanced over at the woman riding at his side. ‘We have arrived, milady, but as you can see, Lord Draconus is not in residence. I imagine his journey to the west will see him gone for some weeks yet.’

The hostage nodded. She rode well, yet frailty surrounded her, as it had done since her collapse.

Ivis had convinced her to remove all but the most necessary layers of clothing, and she was revealed as both shapely and thinner than he had at first thought. By his eye he might judge that she’d known childbirth, in the weight of her breasts and in her manner of moving, and of course such things were known to occur, with the illegitimate children quickly whisked away, given up or sent to be raised in ignorance by distant, remote family members. In truth, however, it was none of his business. She was now a hostage in the House of Dracons, twice-used by the desperate matriarch of House Drukorlas, and Ivis was determined to see her treated well.

‘Your rooms are awaiting you,’ he said as they rode towards the gate. ‘If they are not to your liking, be sure to inform me at once and we will see it put aright.’

‘Thank you, captain. That is most kind. It is a most imposing house, rising so above the walls.’

‘The Lord brought wealth with him when he took up residence.’

‘Whence did he come?’

Ivis shook his head. ‘Even we who serve in his household are not certain of that. Chosen as heir by Lady Dracons, a cousin she said. In any case,’ he added, ‘he served well in the wars — no one can deny that. Well enough to earn the regard of Mother Dark.’

‘A most loving regard, I have heard.’

‘As to that I cannot say, milady. But it suits us well to think so, does it not?’

She studied him briefly, as if uncertain as to his meaning, and then smiled.

Ahead, the gates had been opened and they rode up the track and then into the shadow beneath the heavy lintel stone. Ivis saw Sandalath frowning up at the unknown words carved into the stone, but she ventured no query, and then they were through, riding into the courtyard, where servants and grooms clustered in waiting and voices rose in greeting from a half-dozen Houseblades arrayed in a line. Ivis frowned at the presentation — in his absence, discipline had slackened and he reminded himself to plug the ears of this sorry lot once the hostage was inside.

Dismounting, he passed over the reins to a groom and moved up to help Sandalath down. It seemed her frailty had come upon her again, sudden as a chill, and the relaxed ease she had revealed on occasion during the long ride vanished. Once she was on her feet, servants drew up to fuss over her.

‘Milady,’ said Ivis. ‘The head of the house-servants now serves you in the absence of Lord Draconus. Hilith, present yourself.’

The elderly woman so named had been standing back, close to the stone steps fronting the house, and now she stepped forward with a stiff bow and said, ‘Hostage, we welcome you to this house. I see the journey has wearied you. A bath is ready.’

‘That is most kind,’ Sandalath said.

‘If you will follow me?’ Hilith asked.

‘Of course.’ Sandalath stepped forward, and then paused and turned back to Ivis. ‘Captain, you have been a most courteous escort. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure, milady.’

Hilith instructed two maids to lead Sandalath inside, and then quickly stepped close to Ivis. ‘Captain,’ she hissed, ‘her title is hostage and nothing else. You accord her a title that does not belong to her, not yet in her own house, and never in this one!’

Ivis leaned closer, as if to hint at a formal bow of acquiescence. Instead, he said, in a low tone, ‘Old woman, you are no queen to so command me. I will choose the honorific our guest deserves. She rode well and without complaint. If you have complaint, await the pleasure of our lord upon his return. In the meantime, spit out that sour grape you so love to suck on, and be dutiful.’

‘We shall return to this,’ she said in a rasp. ‘As you said, I am in charge of the house in our lord’s absence-’

‘The servants, maids and cooks, yes. Not me.’

‘It is unseemly, this twice-used hostage-’

‘For which the hostage is not to blame. Now, be gone from this courtyard, where my command holds reign, and if any rumours return to me of your gnawing misery set upon the hostage of this house, we shall indeed return to this.’

He watched her stalk off, and then he glanced across to see a row of grinning Houseblades. ‘Smiling, are you? Now isn’t that a pleasing sight? Comportment so slovenly I nearly choked in shame to see you. Let us see, shall we, how fare those smiles in the course of double drills. Straighten up, you dogs! Eyes forward!’

The servants struggled with the travel chest as they carried it into the room. Looking round, marvelling at the vastness of the chamber that was to be her quarters, Sandalath gestured to one wall. ‘Set that over there. No, do not open it — the only clothing I will use is in those saddle bags — terribly creased by now, I should imagine. They will need cleaning.’ This last detail she addressed to the two maids standing before her. Both women, younger than Sandalath by a few years, quickly bowed and set to unpacking the saddle bags. The other servants retreated from the room.

A moment later Hilith entered, glanced once at the rumpled clothing now appearing from the dusty leather bags, and then faced Sandalath. ‘Hostage, if you will accompany me, we shall see to your bath.’

‘Is the water hot? I prefer it hot.’

The old woman blinked and then nodded. ‘It is indeed, hostage. Or it was when we last left it. I imagine it is cooling even as we speak.’

‘I trust the fire is close, Hilith, should more heat be required. Now, please do lead on. Afterwards, I wish a tour of this house I now call my own.’

Hilith tilted her head and then marched from the room.

Sandalath followed.

‘Upon the Lord’s return,’ the matron said over her shoulder, ‘the two maids attending you shall be at your call. I, however, have other responsibilities that will demand my attention.’

‘Day and night, I am sure.’

Hilith shot a glance back at her and then continued on. ‘Just so.’

‘In the meantime,’ Sandalath said, ‘you will attend to me, as if the house were my own.’

‘Just so,’ Hilith snapped without turning this time.

‘If the bath is insufficiently heated, I will wait for the remedy.’

‘Of course, hostage.’

‘I am curious, Hilith. Were you in charge of the household staff in the time of Lady Dracons?’

‘I was.’

‘Then you have indeed given your life to this service.’

‘Without regret, hostage.’

‘Indeed? That is very well, then, isn’t it?’

She made no reply to that. Their swift passage down the hallway came to an end at a landing leading down. Hilith led Sandalath down the stairs, into a steamy laundry room dominated by a huge basin. Two maids — laundry-beaters by their chafed hands — stood in waiting beside the basin.

‘These will attend to you now,’ Hilith said, turning to leave.

The smell of lye was overwhelming, and Sandalath felt her eyes beginning to water. ‘A moment,’ she said.

‘Hostage?’ Hilith’s expression was innocent.

‘Tell me, does the Lord bathe in this chamber?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Then neither shall I. I stand in his stead in his absence, and I will bathe accordingly. Have freshly boiled, clean water brought to the appropriate chamber. I wish this done in haste, so I will entrust the task’s overseeing to you, Hilith.’ Sandalath gestured to one of the maids. ‘This one will lead me to the proper bathing room.’

Hilith’s narrow face was pale despite the heat. ‘As you wish, hostage.’

In her first time as a hostage, in the Citadel, there had been a frightening hag still tottering in the service of Lord Nimander’s household, and she had been most cruel — until by chance Andarist was made aware of the endless torment. That hag had disappeared. If Hilith were to prove a similar harridan, then Sandalath would speak to Draconus, and see the woman deposed and sent away.

She was not a child any more, to cower before such creatures.

As she walked with the young laundress, she said, ‘If I have made an enemy, I trust I will in turn have many allies?’

Wide eyes lifted to her, and then the girl’s round face split into a broad smile. ‘Hundreds, mistress! Thousands!’

‘My father was a hero in the wars,’ Sandalath said, ‘and I am his daughter.’

‘In the wars! Like Ivis!’

‘Like Ivis,’ she agreed. ‘Is Ivis well liked?’

‘He never looks happy, mistress, and is known to be harsh with his soldiers. But to us he is ever kind.’

‘As he was to me. Will you tell me more of him?’

‘All I know!’

‘Do you think him handsome? Soldiers have a way about them, I think.’

‘But he is old, mistress!’

‘Perhaps in your eyes, he is. But I see a man still in his years of strength, younger than my father, and sure of command. No doubt Lord Draconus values him most highly.’

They came to a heavy wooden door, artfully carved in intricate geometric patterns. The girl pushed it open to reveal a narrow room tiled from floor to ceiling, and at the far end a wash basin and then a tub of copper, large enough to accommodate a man. As Sandalath entered the chamber, she felt waves of heat rising from the floor. Crouching, she set a palm flat upon the tiles. ‘There is fire beneath?’

The girl nodded. ‘I think so, yes. I am rarely here, mistress. But there are flues from the Great Hearth, leading everywhere.’

‘Then this is not a cold house in the winter.’

‘No, mistress, it is blessedly warm!’

Sandalath looked round. ‘I feel welcomed by this house, most welcomed.’

The girl smiled again. ‘You are very pretty, mistress. We’d thought-’

‘What did you all think? Tell me.’

‘We thought you’d be a child, mistress.’

‘As are most new hostages, yes. But you see, I have done this before. And truth be told, in some ways I feel a child again. Every day, the world is born anew.’

The girl sighed.

‘Born anew,’ Sandalath repeated, breathing deep the warm, scented air.