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A harried servant was edging through the crowd, drawing close to where Kellaras stood, and the captain accosted the young man. ‘A word, please. Who is that woman? The officer?’
The servant’s brows lifted. ‘Toras Redone, sir, commander of the Hust Legion.’
‘Ah, of course. Thank you.’
He was certain he had seen her before, but always from a distance — upon a field of battle — and of course helmed and girded for war. She was not one for attending formal events in the Citadel, preferring instead to remain with her legion. It was said that she had arrived to kneel before Mother Dark in sweat-stained leathers, with dust upon her face — he’d thought that tale apocryphal, but now he was not so sure.
She sat now amongst her soldiers, a tankard in one hand, and for all the grime of hard travel upon her, he could see that she was beautiful, yet in a dissolute way, and when Kellaras watched her drain the flagon of ale and then reach for another, he was not surprised.
He considered paying his respects, then decided that this was not the time, and so he continued making his way towards Galar Baras.
‘You look rattled, captain,’ Galar said when he drew close.
Not half as much as you, friend. ‘I have just come from my audience with your lord.’
‘And did he speak to you of childhood?’
‘He did, though I admit to my failing to make sense of it.’
‘And the other matter?’
‘My master will be most pleased. I see you have no drink in hand — I feel bold enough to assail the ale bench-’
‘Not on my account, captain. I cannot stomach it, I’m afraid. I see your surprise — what veteran cannot drink, you wonder? Why, I will answer you: a sober one.’
‘Does this prevent you from sharing in the festivities? I see you standing apart, as if outcast. Come, let us find somewhere to sit.’
Galar’s smile was faint, with a hint of sadness in his eyes. ‘If you insist.’
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A harried servant was edging through the crowd, drawing close to where Kellaras stood, and the captain accosted the young man. ‘A word, please. Who is that woman? The officer?’
The servant’s brows lifted. ‘Toras Redone, sir, commander of the Hust Legion.’
‘Ah, of course. Thank you.’
He was certain he had seen her before, but always from a distance — upon a field of battle — and of course helmed and girded for war. She was not one for attending formal events in the Citadel, preferring instead to remain with her legion. It was said that she had arrived to kneel before Mother Dark in sweat-stained leathers, with dust upon her face — he’d thought that tale apocryphal, but now he was not so sure.
She sat now amongst her soldiers, a tankard in one hand, and for all the grime of hard travel upon her, he could see that she was beautiful, yet in a dissolute way, and when Kellaras watched her drain the flagon of ale and then reach for another, he was not surprised.
He considered paying his respects, then decided that this was not the time, and so he continued making his way towards Galar Baras.
‘You look rattled, captain,’ Galar said when he drew close.
Not half as much as you, friend. ‘I have just come from my audience with your lord.’
‘And did he speak to you of childhood?’
‘He did, though I admit to my failing to make sense of it.’
‘And the other matter?’
‘My master will be most pleased. I see you have no drink in hand — I feel bold enough to assail the ale bench-’
‘Not on my account, captain. I cannot stomach it, I’m afraid. I see your surprise — what veteran cannot drink, you wonder? Why, I will answer you: a sober one.’
‘Does this prevent you from sharing in the festivities? I see you standing apart, as if outcast. Come, let us find somewhere to sit.’
Galar’s smile was faint, with a hint of sadness in his eyes. ‘If you insist.’
They made their way to a table, Kellaras choosing one close to the servants’ entrance where a score of used flagons crowded the surface. As they sat he said, ‘Can you explain, then, your lord’s obsession with becoming a child once more?’
Galar Baras seemed to hesitate, and then he leaned close, one forearm pushing the flagons to one side. ‘It is troubling to us all, captain-’
‘Please, call me Kellaras.’
‘Very well. Kellaras. Something afflicts Henarald, at least in his own mind. He claims he is losing his memories, not of distant times, but of the day just past, or indeed the morning just done. Yet we do not see it, not yet in any case. There is an illness that takes smiths. Some believe it resides in the fumes from the forge, in the steam from quenching, or the molten drops of ore that burn the skin. It is called the Loss of Iron-’
‘I have indeed heard of this,’ Kellaras replied. ‘Yet I tell you, after my audience with your lord, I saw nothing afflicting his intellect. Rather, he speaks in abstractions, in the language of poets. When the subject demands precision, his wit sharpens quickly. This requires a facility, a definite acuity of the mind.’
Galar Baras shrugged. ‘I reveal no secrets here, Kellaras. The rumour is long out — our lord feels afflicted, and the keenness of his intelligence, that you so surely describe, is to him evidence of the war he wages with himself, with the failings he senses besieging him. He strikes out with precision to battle the blunting of memories.’
‘I had first thought that he feared this return to childhood,’ Kellaras said, frowning. ‘But I began to suspect that he will welcome it, should it come to him. A release from all the fraught things of the adult world.’
‘You may well be right,’ Galar admitted. ‘Will you report to your master on this matter?’
‘He has promised Anomander a sword — do his skills fail him?’
‘No, we have seen nothing like that.’
‘Then Lord Henarald’s fears for his own health have no bearing on the commission.’
‘I thank you, Kellaras.’
Kellaras waved the gratitude away. ‘Besides, I could tell you my master’s likely response should he hear of your lord’s assertions.’
‘Oh, and what would he say?’
‘I imagine he would nod most thoughtfully, and then say: “There is much to be said for a return to childhood.”’
After a moment, Galar smiled, and this time there was no sadness to be found in it.
Kellaras drank his fair share of ale and offered up easy company that did much to ease the turmoil in Galar Baras’s soul, and when at last the captain rose, slurring his words of departure, and made his way unsteadily from the chamber, Galar was left alone once more, helpless to fend off the pain caused by the sight of Toras Redone.
