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She flinched. ‘I will confess, Lord, we have made of sensation something sordid.’
‘Mother Dark is free with her indulgences,’ Anomander replied, carelessly waving a hand. ‘Forgive me, High Priestess. In every age there comes a time when all subtlety vanishes, all veils are torn aside, and men and women will speak brazen truths. By such bold proclamations we find ourselves divided, with the span between us growing daily.’
‘You describe civil war in its crux,’ growled Silchas. ‘It is well upon us, brother. But the time for philosophy is past; if indeed one could ever claim its worth in any time. If your clear eye hangs on every current, you become blind to the river’s deadly rush. Have done with the analysis, Anomander, and draw out this ill-named but righteous sword.’
‘By so doing, Silchas, I sever what remains between me and Andarist.’
‘Then find him and make this right!’
‘He will insist on his grief, Silchas, while I hold to vengeance. We have each made our proclamation, and see this yawning span grow between us. High Priestess, I asked for your forgiveness and I am humble in that pleading. It seems we are all trapped in indulgences for the moment. Andarist and his guilt, Silchas and his impatience, and me… well… she will see me now, you said?’
Emral studied the First Son. ‘Of course you are forgiven, Lord Anomander. The very air we breathe is distraught. Yes, she will see you now.’
‘I should be pleased,’ Anomander said, his frowning gaze once more upon the floor beyond his boots. ‘I should rise up now and with haste renew our acquaintance, and hold to the expectation of guidance from our goddess. So what holds me here, except the anticipation of yet more frustration, as she offers up the insubstantial if only to observe my floundering, and how am I to read her expression? Must I suffer again her remoteness, or will it be a look enlivened by my misery? This goddess of ours blunts my fury when she refuses to name her enemy.’
Silchas snorted. ‘Name them renegades and be done with it! Leave Urusander to writhe on the gibbet of suspicion, and let us ride to take down the slayers of Jaen and Enesdia!’
‘She forbids me to draw this sword in her name, Silchas.’
‘Then draw it in the name of your brother!’
Anomander met his brother’s eyes, brows lifting. ‘In the name of my brother or in the name of his grief?’
‘See the two as one, Anomander, and give it a vengeful edge.’
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She flinched. ‘I will confess, Lord, we have made of sensation something sordid.’
‘Mother Dark is free with her indulgences,’ Anomander replied, carelessly waving a hand. ‘Forgive me, High Priestess. In every age there comes a time when all subtlety vanishes, all veils are torn aside, and men and women will speak brazen truths. By such bold proclamations we find ourselves divided, with the span between us growing daily.’
‘You describe civil war in its crux,’ growled Silchas. ‘It is well upon us, brother. But the time for philosophy is past; if indeed one could ever claim its worth in any time. If your clear eye hangs on every current, you become blind to the river’s deadly rush. Have done with the analysis, Anomander, and draw out this ill-named but righteous sword.’
‘By so doing, Silchas, I sever what remains between me and Andarist.’
‘Then find him and make this right!’
‘He will insist on his grief, Silchas, while I hold to vengeance. We have each made our proclamation, and see this yawning span grow between us. High Priestess, I asked for your forgiveness and I am humble in that pleading. It seems we are all trapped in indulgences for the moment. Andarist and his guilt, Silchas and his impatience, and me… well… she will see me now, you said?’
Emral studied the First Son. ‘Of course you are forgiven, Lord Anomander. The very air we breathe is distraught. Yes, she will see you now.’
‘I should be pleased,’ Anomander said, his frowning gaze once more upon the floor beyond his boots. ‘I should rise up now and with haste renew our acquaintance, and hold to the expectation of guidance from our goddess. So what holds me here, except the anticipation of yet more frustration, as she offers up the insubstantial if only to observe my floundering, and how am I to read her expression? Must I suffer again her remoteness, or will it be a look enlivened by my misery? This goddess of ours blunts my fury when she refuses to name her enemy.’
Silchas snorted. ‘Name them renegades and be done with it! Leave Urusander to writhe on the gibbet of suspicion, and let us ride to take down the slayers of Jaen and Enesdia!’
‘She forbids me to draw this sword in her name, Silchas.’
‘Then draw it in the name of your brother!’
Anomander met his brother’s eyes, brows lifting. ‘In the name of my brother or in the name of his grief?’
‘See the two as one, Anomander, and give it a vengeful edge.’
‘The sentiments but glare at one another-’
‘Only one does so, brother. Grief but weeps.’
Anomander looked away. ‘That surrender I cannot afford.’
The breath hissed from Silchas. ‘See the room grow smaller, and see the man who will not move. High Priestess, do report our weakness to Mother Dark. Then return to us with her answer.’
Emral shook her head. ‘I cannot, Lord Silchas. She takes audience with the Azathanai, Grizzin Farl. She asks that the First Son join them.’
There was a sound from the outer room, and a moment later Gripp Galas stepped through the open doorway. He bowed before Anomander. ‘Milord, forgive this interruption-’
‘You are a welcome sight,’ Anomander replied.
‘Milord, I have with me the child Orfantal, and would present him to you.’
The First Son rose. ‘This pleases me. Do bring him in, Gripp.’
The old man half turned and gestured.
Emral watched the boy edge into view, hesitating upon the threshold to the chamber.
‘Orfantal,’ said Anomander. ‘You are most welcome. I am informed that you have made of your journey to Kharkanas an adventure worthy of a bard’s song, perhaps even a poem or two. Please enter and tell us about yourself.’
When the boy’s dark eyes touched briefly on Emral, she smiled in answer.
Orfantal stepped into the room. ‘Thank you, milord. Of me there is little worth saying. I am told that I am ill-named. I am told that my father was a hero in the wars, who died of his wounds, but I never saw him. My grandmother is now dead, burned to ashes in House Korlas. If she had not sent me here after sending away my mother, I would have died in the fire. I see nothing in me worth a poem, and nothing in my life worth singing about. But I have longed to meet you all.’
No one spoke.
Then Silchas stepped forth and offered his hand. ‘Orfantal,’ he said, ‘I believe there is another hostage in the Citadel. A girl, perhaps a year or two younger than you. She is often found in the company of the priests, or the court historian. Shall we go and find her? By this means I can also show you more of your new home.’
