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The First Son shrugged. ‘All your talk of sorcery reaches me as would words of a storm whose wind I cannot feel, nor hear. What you name mystery I receive with ignorance. You could well be speaking another language.’
‘And yet, First Son, you witnessed its work, when I first came among you, to set the hearthstone for your brother. And on that day, we made vows that bound together our souls.’
‘Ah, I wondered when the chains between us would begin to chafe you, Azathanai.’
‘I feel no strain, I assure you, Anomander Rake. But this journey, in search of Andarist, well, to my sense of things, I see a circle closing. But only for me. If I am to speak here as your shadow, I say we have strayed far from the necessary path.’
‘You counsel my hasty return to Kharkanas.’
‘If Kharkanas will sharpe
n your focus, First Son, upon your realm’s most pressing needs, then yes.’
Lord Anomander halted and turned to Caladan. ‘She has turned from me, the one she would call her First Son. She has made darkness her wall, her unrelieved keep. Where, then, is her focus? Upon her children? Evidently not. Let her indulge as she will in her lover’s arms – I will not step between them. But when she dares ask me to bring this conflict to an end, yet refuses the call to arms, what is a warrior to do with that charge?’ He swung round, resumed marching. ‘For now, I will serve my own needs, if only to match her reflection.’
‘And will she make note of your gesture, First Son?’
‘When the notion of interest finds her,’ Anomander said in a growl, ‘she might blink to the meaning. It is said,’ he added in a bitter tone, ‘that the darkness does not blind, yet she has made me as blind as Kadaspala.’
‘She speaks the truth,’ said Caladan. ‘The darkness does not blind. And Kadaspala, I fear, is a poor comparison, since he is made blind by his own hands. In the name of grief, he sacrificed beauty. And here you walk, Anomander, in the name of vengeance. If not beauty your sacrifice, then some other thing. In each instance, the wound is self-inflicted.’
‘As you said,’ Anomander snapped, ‘Kadaspala was a poor comparison.’
‘What would you have of Mother Dark?’
‘If she is to be our goddess. If, indeed, she is to be my mother, inasmuch as the station is well-nigh vacant. Must I list the expectations? Set aside worship – I know her too well. I fear even the role of the mother struggles in me – she is not too many years older, after all. Thus, what is left to me to consider?’
‘The throne.’
‘Yes. The throne. The mundane perch upon which we paint prestige and authority like gilt. And from that vantage all faith in order must descend like gentle rain. Knock it askew and the realm totters. Bathe it in blood, and the lands burn. Should one take that seat, the hands must grip tight the arms.’
They were among the hills now, with the raw stone on either side silvered in frost. Wreneck walked in their wake, listening, understanding little. The sky overhead was the hue of sword blades.
‘Assemble for me, then,’ said Caladan Brood, ‘the necessities of proper rule.’
‘You invite this game?’
‘Indulge me.’
Lord Anomander sighed. ‘Virtues cannot be plucked from position, Azathanai. Nor worn like gem-studded robes. Justice does not live in the length of a sceptre, and the mere wood, nails and cloth of a throne invests nothing but the illusion of comfort. Pomp and ritual belabour the argument, and far from stirring a soul can more easily be scorned and given the drip of irony.’
‘You speak, thus far, as preamble. I will hear your list, First Son.’
‘I but voice my dislike of the very notion of rule, Caladan. She has made it too easy to confuse the worship that comes with a god or goddess with that of the honourable choice to serve one who rules, if that rule is worthy of respect.’ Anomander shook his head. ‘Very well. Live as if you believe in the virtues of your people, but rule without delusions, neither of them nor of yourself. Where stands the throne? In a field of poppies, with the boldest and brightest flowers crowding close, eager to numb your every sense. Their whispers will weave about you a poisonous cloud, through which you must strain to pierce the haze, if you can. Ambition has its own nature, and in every measure it proves simple enough to discern. The ruler’s goal is wisdom, but wisdom is as fodder for the ambitious, and given the chance they will pick its bones clean long ere the serving reaches the throne. By such scraps one must raise up a righteous rule. Is it any wonder so many fail?’
Caladan was silent for a moment, and then he grunted and said, ‘You set an impossible table, upon which no mortal can hope to attend.’
‘You think I do not know it?’
‘Describe for me, if you can, the nature of this wisdom.’
Anomander snorted impatiently. ‘Wisdom is surrender.’
‘To what?’
‘Complexity.’
‘To what end?’
