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‘Even as its meaning weathers away. Tend to the stone or bronze, yes, and keep it pristine. But, I wonder, who tends to the truth of it? It would be better, I sometimes think, if I simply sank my works into bogs, to dwell in darkness and mud.’
‘An altogether different kind of monument,’ said the nearer man, as he brought his hand once again to rest upon Wreneck’s brow. ‘A different meaning, too.’
‘Intention, First Son, yields no echoes. All who come afterwards, to gaze upon my art, can only wonder at my mind, even as they note every chisel scar, and ponder the sure hand that dealt it. They will, of course, make a feast of the morsels, and assert their pronouncements to be a certain truth.’
The hand slipped away again and Wreneck heard the man beside him rise to stand, and his voice now drifted down as if coming from a cave, or the ledge of some tower or cliff. ‘Your angst is not unfamiliar, Caladan Brood. I’ve heard the poet Gallan snarling when in his cups. Still, there is little artistry in my life. My mind works in plain ways, my meaning plainer still.’
The one named Caladan Brood, whose voice was strangely heavy, now made a sound that might have been laughter. ‘And your swordplay knows no subtlety, Rake? The machinations of court? You fail to convince me with your claims.’
‘The issue is simple enough,’ Rake replied. ‘Urusander and his legion will quit Neret Sorr before the break of winter’s hold. Together, they will march upon Kharkanas, with the intention of setting Urusander upon a throne, at Mother Dark’s side.’
‘And what in such a scenario so offends you, First Son? Tell me, if you will, what sets the common soldier so far beneath those of noble blood? By what means do you measure worth?’
‘Ask the common soldier, Caladan, and the words are direct enough. Coin and land, standing and prestige. A freedom with indulgences, a certain pomp. The very things they curse in their enemies are what they seek for themselves. The argument, friend, is held low, and in that modesty, iron will shout in the manner of bullies. It is a pathetic language, this argument, with mutual stupidity setting the limits of the exchange.’
‘Yet you must march to meet him, with swords and spears to speak for you.’
The First Son – Wreneck knew that title, as he had heard Lady Nerys utter it often enough, in tones of awe – was slow in replying, and when he did, his voice was cold. ‘The pretensions of the nobles are little better, Caladan. They see their perch as crowded enough. I have an angry child to either side of me, and I like it not – is this my sole task? My singular service to Mother Dark? T
o stand between two self-serving brats? No. If I am to march against Urusander, I need better reason than that.’
‘And have you one?’
‘I take offence at the presumption.’
‘Whose?’
‘Well, all of them. But mostly Urusander’s – or perhaps it is Hunn Raal’s, but I have doubts as to the importance of the distinction.’
‘Do you know, then, Mother Dark’s mind?’
The First Son’s laugh was bitter, and then he said, ‘She has her Consort. Is this not plain enough? But then a kinswoman of yours, Azathanai, flung a burning brand into the haystack. Andii and now Liosan – we are a people divided, and I cannot but believe that was your Azathanai’s intent, to see us weakened. And I must wonder, why?’
‘Look to Draconus for an answer to that, First Son.’
‘Draconus? Why him?’
‘He has brought Dark to the Tiste.’
‘The Terondai on the Citadel’s floor? No. The Azathanai named T’riss had already done her damage by then.’
‘The Gate, which I suppose we must now call Kurald Galain, is an iteration of control,’ Caladan replied, ‘over a force that was and remains pervasive, existing as it does in opposition to Chaos.’
‘To Chaos? Not Light?’
‘Light, if you would consider this, is an absolution of Chaos. In its purity it finds order, with substance and hue. This is how Chaos seeks, in its own fashion, its own obliteration.’
‘I do not understand you, Caladan. You speak of these elemental forces as if they possessed will.’
‘No, only proclivity. Name any force and, with sufficient contemplation, you will discern that it cannot exist alone. Other forces act upon it, make demands of it, and even alter the edges of its own nature. This is Creation’s dialogue, but even then, what seems but opposition, of two forces set against one another, is in truth a multitude of interactions, of voices. Perhaps dialogue is the wrong word. Think more of a tumult, a cacophony. Each force seeks to impose its own rhythm upon all of Creation, and what results may well seem disordered, but I assure you, First Son, this chorus makes music. For those willing or able to hear.’
‘Caladan, return this discussion to Draconus, and T’riss.’
‘A lover’s gift – well, too many gifts, and too generous their span. In his blessing of the woman he loves with the power of Elemental Dark, Draconus imposed an impossible imbalance upon Creation. The world, First Son – any world – can hold only its necessary forces, and these in delicate balance. The Azathanai you have named T’riss had no choice, although in the boldness of her act she displayed nothing of the subtlety of our kind. It may be that the Vitr has damaged her in some way.’
‘I would track her down, Caladan, to learn more of all this.’
‘She may well return,’ Caladan said. ‘But for now, it is unlikely you can find her trail. She walks unseen paths. You must understand, First Son: the Azathanai are skilled at not being found.’
