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‘Why, everything, of course.’
The priest stared up at him, his expression unreadable.
‘You are exhausted, friend. Close your eyes. I will abide.’
‘And when you see the blood on my hands?’
‘I will take them in my own.’
Endest’s eyes filled with tears, but a moment later he closed them and set his head back against the chair’s thick padding.
Rise Herat watched sleep take the young priest, and waited for the mask to crack.
They rode through a city subdued, where light struggled and what commerce Orfantal saw spoke in strident voices, with gestures sudden and fretful. The gloom of the alleys that led on to the main thoroughfare bled out like wounds upon the day. He was riding one of Lady Hish Tulla’s horses, a placid mare with a broad back and twitching ears, her mane braided yet cut short to raise the knotted stubble into a crest. He wondered if the animal had a name. He wondered if she knew it and held it as her own, and what that name might mean to her, especially when in the company of other horses. And did she know the names given to other horses; and if she did, then what new shape had she found in her world? Was there some inkling that things were not as they had once seemed; that something foreign was now lodged in the animal’s head?
He did not know why such questions haunted him. There were all kinds of helplessness, just as there were many kinds of blindness. A horse could carry on its back a hero, or a villain. The beast knew no difference and deserved no stain from the deeds of its master. A child could stumble in the wake of a father who murdered for pleasure, or a mother who murdered from fear, and yet find an entire life spent in the shadow of such knowledge. Questions could not arise without some sense of knowing, and the worst of it was, with that knowing came the realization that many of those questions could never be answered.
Directly ahead rode Gripp Galas, who had returned from the wedding that never happened at Hish Tulla’s side, and the lady had been wearing armour and weapons, and there was news of deaths coming down from the north. All of this made the room where Orfantal stayed, and the house that surrounded it, seem small and woeful. Gripp and Hish Tulla had been silent and yet filled with grim news, but Orfantal had been too frightened to ask any questions, and he fled the weight of their presence.
But on this day they were escorting him to the Citadel, into the keeping of the Sons and Daughters of Night. He was about to meet Lord Anomander and his brothers: all the great men his mother had talked about, and if there was talk of war, then Orfantal knew that he had nothing to fear in the midst of such heroes.
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‘Why, everything, of course.’
The priest stared up at him, his expression unreadable.
‘You are exhausted, friend. Close your eyes. I will abide.’
‘And when you see the blood on my hands?’
‘I will take them in my own.’
Endest’s eyes filled with tears, but a moment later he closed them and set his head back against the chair’s thick padding.
Rise Herat watched sleep take the young priest, and waited for the mask to crack.
They rode through a city subdued, where light struggled and what commerce Orfantal saw spoke in strident voices, with gestures sudden and fretful. The gloom of the alleys that led on to the main thoroughfare bled out like wounds upon the day. He was riding one of Lady Hish Tulla’s horses, a placid mare with a broad back and twitching ears, her mane braided yet cut short to raise the knotted stubble into a crest. He wondered if the animal had a name. He wondered if she knew it and held it as her own, and what that name might mean to her, especially when in the company of other horses. And did she know the names given to other horses; and if she did, then what new shape had she found in her world? Was there some inkling that things were not as they had once seemed; that something foreign was now lodged in the animal’s head?
He did not know why such questions haunted him. There were all kinds of helplessness, just as there were many kinds of blindness. A horse could carry on its back a hero, or a villain. The beast knew no difference and deserved no stain from the deeds of its master. A child could stumble in the wake of a father who murdered for pleasure, or a mother who murdered from fear, and yet find an entire life spent in the shadow of such knowledge. Questions could not arise without some sense of knowing, and the worst of it was, with that knowing came the realization that many of those questions could never be answered.
Directly ahead rode Gripp Galas, who had returned from the wedding that never happened at Hish Tulla’s side, and the lady had been wearing armour and weapons, and there was news of deaths coming down from the north. All of this made the room where Orfantal stayed, and the house that surrounded it, seem small and woeful. Gripp and Hish Tulla had been silent and yet filled with grim news, but Orfantal had been too frightened to ask any questions, and he fled the weight of their presence.
But on this day they were escorting him to the Citadel, into the keeping of the Sons and Daughters of Night. He was about to meet Lord Anomander and his brothers: all the great men his mother had talked about, and if there was talk of war, then Orfantal knew that he had nothing to fear in the midst of such heroes.
Lady Hish Tulla rode up alongside Orfantal. Her expression was severe. ‘You have known such hardship since leaving House Korlas, Orfantal, and I fear the unpleasantness is not yet at an end.’
Ahead of them, Gripp Galas glanced back, and then looked forward once again. They were approaching the first bridge. That brief moment of attention disturbed Orfantal, though he knew not why.
‘There has been news from Abara Delack,’ she continued. ‘The monastery has been assaulted and burned to the ground. Alas, the violence did not end there. Orfantal, we have word that your grandmother has died, and that House Korlas is no more. I am sorry. Gripp and I disagreed on this, the telling of such terrible news, but I feared you would hear it when in the Citadel, in an instant lacking sensitivity — the place awaiting you is a buzzing wasp nest of gossip, and often words are spoken for the sole purpose of witnessing their sting.’
Orfantal hunched over in the saddle, fighting a sudden chill. ‘This city,’ he said, ‘is so dark.’
‘More so in the Citadel,’ Lady Hish Tulla said. ‘Such is the flavour of Mother Dark’s power. At the very least, Orfantal, you will soon lose your fear of the dark, and in that absence of light you will find that you see all there is that needs seeing.’
‘Will my skin turn black?’
‘It will, unless you choose the ways of the Deniers, I suppose.’
‘I would have the cast of Lord Anomander,’ he said.
‘Then Night shall find you, Orfantal.’
‘At House Korlas, milady, did everyone die? I had a friend there, a boy who worked with the horses.’
She studied him, and did not immediately reply.
They rode out across the broad bridge, the clash of the hoofs on the cobbles beneath them suddenly sounding hollow. Orfantal could smell the river, rising up dank and vaguely foul. It made him think of brooding gods.
‘I do not know,’ Hish Tulla said. ‘The fire left very few remains.’
‘Well, he used to be my friend, but then that went away. I am glad Mother wasn’t there, though.’
