Forge of Darkness

‘And what do you feel?’



‘Up here, it is as if the world’s weight falls from my shoulders. While in the corridors beneath us…’ He shrugged.



‘You are young,’ said Rise. ‘There is much for you to bear, but the gift of youth means you scarcely feel its weight. It distresses me to think that you are growing old before your time.’



Cedorpul said, ‘You’ve not yet heard. A rider has come in from one of the monasteries. Warlock Resh leads a party of Shake. They are escorting a guest, who will meet Mother Dark herself.’



‘Indeed? It is already known that she will grant an audience? This guest must be of considerable importance.’



‘From the Vitr.’



Rise turned to Cedorpul, studied the flushed face and bright blue eyes, wondering again at the lack of eyebrows or any other facial hair — did the man simply shave it all off, as he did from his pate? It seemed an odd affectation. ‘Nothing comes from the Vitr,’ he said.



‘We make bold claims at our peril,’ Endest muttered from where he leaned over the wall.



Rise considered for a moment, and then said, ‘It is said the Azathanai have fashioned stone vessels capable of holding Vitr. Perhaps entire ships can be constructed of the same material.’



‘No ships,’ said Cedorpul. ‘Beyond that, we know little. A woman, but not Tiste.’



‘Azathanai?’



‘It would seem so,’ Endest confirmed.



‘They should approach the edge of the forest soon, I would judge,’ Cedorpul announced, moving to position himself beside his fellow priest. ‘We thought to witness their arrival from here.’



So much for a period of restful contemplation. ‘I trust all is being made ready below.’



‘Nothing grand,’ Cedorpul said. ‘This is not a formal visit, after all.’



‘No polishing of buckles?’ Rise asked. ‘No buffing of silver?’



Endest snorted.



Puffing out his fleshy cheeks, Cedorpul slowly shook his head. ‘Ill-chosen my company this day. I am assailed by irreverence. An historian who derides historical occasions. An acolyte who mocks decorum.’



‘Decorum?’ Endest twisted round on one elbow to regard Cedorpul. ‘How readily you forget, that before dawn this morning I dragged you out from under three priestess candidates. Smelling like a sack of stale wine, and as for the stains upon your robes, well, I remain most decorous in not looking too closely!’ To Rise Herat he added, ‘Cedorpul finds the candidates when they’re still waiting in the chaperon’s antechamber, and informs them that their prowess in bed must be tested-’



‘I avail myself of their natural eagerness,’ Cedorpul explained.



‘He’s found an unused room and now has the key for it. Swears the candidates to secrecy-’



‘Dear me,’ said Rise. ‘Cedorpul, you risk a future of scorn and righteous vengeance. I hope I live to witness it in all its glory.’



‘Endest, you have failed me in every measure of friendship of which I can conceive. Into the ears of the court historian, no less! It will be the two of you who curse me to the fate the historian so ominously describes!’



‘Hardly,’ countered Endest. ‘I envision a night of confessions — no, whom do I deceive? Dozens of nights and confessions by the hundred. Yours is a fate I do not envy-’



‘You seemed thankful enough for my cast-offs last night, honourable acolyte. And every other night at that. Who was it who said that hypocrisy has no place in a temple of worship?’



‘No one,’ replied Rise Herat, ‘as far as I know.’



‘Indeed?’ Cedorpul asked. ‘Truth?’



Rise nodded.



‘Oh my,’ Cedorpul said, and then he sighed. ‘These matters are beneath argument. Let us ignore, for the time being, the unfortunate circumstances driving the three of us into each other’s company, and enjoy the view.’



‘And what of young Legyl Behust?’ Rise asked him.



‘Surely there is a sound argument to be made regarding the educational value of play. Besides, that chamber beneath us is the traditional sanctuary of the Citadel’s succession of hostages. May she bar the door in all assurance of privacy. Until the noon bell at the very least.’



It occurred to Rise Herat, somewhat ungraciously, that he would have preferred the company of Legyl Behust.



Cedorpul pointed. ‘I see them!’



Sister Emral Lanear examined herself in the full-length silvered mirror. The faintly blurred woman staring back at her promised great beauty, and Emral longed for them to exchange places. With such a prayer answered, none could pierce the veil, and she need not guard herself at every moment, lest someone glimpse the tortured truths roiling behind her eyes; and in expression she would give nothing away.