Forge of Darkness

When Emral Lanear said nothing in response to Cedorpul’s words, the priest cleared his throat and resumed. ‘High Priestess, is this now a war of three faiths? We know nothing of Syntara’s intentions. She seems to position herself solely in opposition, but that in itself offers modest cause.’



‘And probably short-lived,’ Endest Silann added.



Emral’s eyes flicked to the acolyte as if without recognition, and then away again.



The glance Cedorpul then turned on Rise Herat was beseeching. ‘Historian, have you thoughts on any of this?’



Thoughts? What value those? ‘Syntara sought refuge in Urusander’s Legion. But I wonder at the measure of their welcome. Does it not confuse their cause?’



Cedorpul snorted. ‘Is it not confused enough? Beating down the wretched poor to challenge the eminence of the highborn could not be more wrong-footed.’ He faced Emral again. ‘High Priestess, it is said they strike down Deniers in Mother Dark’s name. She must disavow this, surely?’



At that Emral seemed to wince. Shakily she drew out a chair from the table dominating the chamber, and then sat, as if made exhausted by her own silence. After a long moment she spoke. ‘The faith of holding on to faith… I wonder’ — and she looked up and met the historian’s eyes — ‘if that is not all we have. All we ever have.’



‘Do we invent our gods?’ Rise asked her. ‘Without question we have invented this one. But as we can all see, in each other and in such mirrors as we may possess, our faith is so marked and gives proof to her power.’



‘But is it hers?’ Emral asked.



Cedorpul moved forward, and went down on one knee beside her. He took hold of her left hand and clasped it. ‘High Priestess, doubt is our weakness as it is their weapon. We must find resolve.’



‘I have none,’ she replied.



‘Then we must fashion it with our own hands! We are the Children of Night now. An unknown river divides the Tiste and we fall to one side or the other. We are cleaved in two, High Priestess, and must make meaning from that.’



She studied him with reddened eyes. ‘Make meaning? I see no meaning beyond division itself, this ragged tear between ink and unstained parchment. Regard the historian here and you will see the truth of that, and the desolation it promises. How would you want me to answer our losses? With fire and brutal zeal? Look well upon Mother Dark and see the path she has chosen.’



‘It is unknown to us,’ snapped Cedorpul.



‘The river god yielded the holy places,’ she replied. ‘The birth waters have withdrawn. There is no war of wills between them. Syntara was not driven away; she but fled. Mother Dark seeks peace and would challenge none in its name.’



Cedorpul released her hand and straightened. He backed away a step, and then another, until his retreat was brought to a halt, against the tapestry covering the wall. He struggled to speak for a moment, and then said, ‘Without challenge, there can only be surrender. Are we so easily defeated, High Priestess?’



When Emral made no answer, Rise said, ‘“Beware an easy victory.”’



Emral looked up at him sharply. ‘Gallan. Where is he, historian?’



Rise shrugged. ‘He has made himself a ghost and walks unseen. In times such as these, no poet is heeded, and indeed is likely to be among the first to hang from a spike, in clacking consort with crows.’



‘Words win us nothing,’ Cedorpul said. ‘And now Anomander leaves the city, and with him his brothers. The Hust Legion is leagues to the south. The Wardens crouch in Glimmer Fate. The nobleborn do not stir, as if disaster and discord are beneath them all. Upon which threshold do they stand, and which step taken by the enemy is a step too far?’ He no longer held pleading eyes on Emral Lanear as he spoke, and Rise understood that the priest had dismissed her, seeing in the High Priestess an impotency that he was not yet ready to accept. Instead, he glared at the historian during the course of his tirade. ‘Is this our curse?’ he demanded. ‘That we live in a time of indifference? Do you think the wolves will hold back, when all they see before them is weakness?’



‘The wolves are true to their nature,’ Rise said in reply, ‘and indifference plagues every age and every time, priest. Our doom is to be driven to act when it is already too late, and to then give zeal to our amends. And we beat our brows and decry that indifference, which we never own, or loudly proclaim our ignorance, which is ever a lie. And old women drag brooms through the streets and graves are dug in even rows, and we are made solemn before the revealed fragility of our ways.’