Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) (33 page)

She disliked hearing such things. Cryl was her companion, a brother in every way but blood. She struggled to imagine life without him at her side, and she felt a tremor of rising shock as it suddenly struck her that, once she was married, her time with Cryl would be truly at an end. After all, had she really been expecting him to join them in the new house? Absurd.

So much had been happening, devouring her every thought; only now was she thinking things through. ‘But I miss him,’ she said. Hearing the weakness of her own voice misted her eyes.

Her father faced her. ‘Darling,’ he said, taking her arm and leading her away from the railing. ‘A changing world is a most frightening thing—’

‘I’m not frightened.’

‘Well, perhaps “bewildering” is a better description.’

‘He’s just … grown past me. That’s all.’

‘I doubt he sees it that way. You have made your choice, Enesdia, and the path before you is now certain, and the man who will walk at your side awaits you. It is time for Cryl to find his own future.’

‘What will he do? Has he spoken to you? He’s said nothing to me – he doesn’t say anything to me any more. It’s as if he doesn’t even like me.’

They were returning to the Great House, Jaen electing to use a side entrance, a narrow passageway leading into an enclosed garden. ‘His feelings for you are unchanged, but just as you set off into your new direction – away from this house – so too must Cryl. He will return to his own family, and it is there that his future will be decided.’

‘The Duravs – they are all soldiers. Cryl has only one brother left alive. The wars almost destroyed that family. He’ll take up the sword. He’ll follow in Spinnock’s footsteps. Such a waste!’

‘We are no longer at war, Enesdia. The risks are not what they once were, and for that we can all be thankful. In any case, the youngest born among the nobility have few recourses these days.’

They stood in the garden, in still air made cool by the raised pond commanding the centre. The fruit trees trained up two of the inner walls were laden with heavy, lush fruit, the purple globes looking like dusty glass. She thought, if one should fall in the next moment, it might shatter. ‘I have been unmindful, Father. Selfish. We are parting, and it will be difficult for both of us.’

‘Indeed.’

She looked up at him. ‘And even worse for you – is not Cryl the son you never had? This house will seem so … empty.’

Jaen smiled. ‘An old man treasures his peace and quiet.’

‘Oh? So you cannot wait to be rid of us?’

‘Now you have the truth of it.’

‘Well, then I’ll not spare your feelings another thought.’

‘Better. Now, return to your maids, lest they make mischief.’

‘They can wait a while longer – I wish to stay here for a time. I need to think.’

Still smiling, her father departed the garden.

I could ask Andarist to offer Cryl a commission. In the Citadel Wards. Somewhere safe. It will be my gift to Cryl. A gift that he will never know about. He will have Andarist as his commander – or will it be Anomander? No matter. He could advance far
.

She walked to the nearest tree, reached out and took hold of a globe of fruit. Soft, ripe. She twisted it loose.
See? No risk of shattering. Nothing like that at all
. She felt something wet trickling down her hand. Gentle as she had been, the skin had split.

Oh, now I am stained!

Annoyed, Enesdia flung the fruit into the pond, the splash loud as a retort.

A commission for Cryl. She would have to work hard at hiding her intentions – he seemed to see right through her.

It’s good that he’s gone away
.

* * *

The estate road joined the track leading east, and it was there that Orfantal waited, standing beside a slope-backed nag purchased in Abara Delack, at his side the stable boy, Wreneck, a sour dog-faced boy with greasy hair and a constellation of acne on his broad, flat brow. There had been a time, not so long ago, when Wreneck played with Orfantal, and for those few months – shortly after the fire when the responsibilities of a stable boy more or less ceased to exist – Orfantal had discovered the pleasures of friendship, and in the shambling stable boy an agreeable companion in his imagined wars and battles. But then something had happened and Wreneck grew taciturn and, on occasion, cruel.

Now the boy stood stroking the nag’s neck, impatient with the wait as the day’s heat built and the sun’s glare sharpened. There was no shade to be found barring that cast by the horse. They had stood in this place since shortly after dawn, circled by three feral dogs from town drawn by the smell of the fresh bread and egg pie the servants had made up for Orfantal’s lunch, which filled the small hessian bag he clutched in one hand.

There had been no conversation. At ten years, Wreneck was twice Orfantal’s age and it seemed that this span of years had become vast, over which no bridge of words could cross. Orfantal thought long and hard on what he might have done to offend Wreneck, but he could think of no way to broach the subject. The stable boy’s expression
was
closed, almost hostile, all his interest seemingly consumed by the somnolent horse at his side.

His legs growing tired, Orfantal went to sit down on the travel trunk containing his clothes, wooden swords and the dozen lead toy soldiers he owned – four Tiste and three Jheleck and five Forulkan, none painted, as his grandmother had concluded that if given paints he would make a mess of the tabletop. He had been astonished to discover that all of his possessions fit into the single, small trunk that had once held his grandfather’s war gear – with room to spare. Indeed, he thought he could fit himself into that trunk, and make of his entire life a thing to be carried about, passed from hand to hand, or flung into the ditch and left behind and forgotten by the whole world.

Wreneck wouldn’t mind. His mother wouldn’t mind; and his grandmother, who was sending him away, might well be pleased to see the last of him. He wasn’t sure, in truth, where he was going, only that it was away, to a place where he would be taught things and be made into a grown-up. Eyeing Wreneck askance, he tried to imagine himself as old as the stable boy, finding the year that unhappiness came to every boy’s life, and feeling his own features sag into that angry, helpless expression. And ten years later, his face would find a new set, to match the sadness of his mother.

Hundreds of years after that, he saw himself with his grandmother’s face, bearing the look that always reminded him of a hawk eyeing a field mouse speared to the ground by its talons. This was the path to adulthood, he supposed, and Grandmother was sending him off to learn how to live with what everyone had to live with, the steps of growing up, all the faces to find in his own.

A rumble in the road lifted him to his feet, looking west to see a troop of riders and two heavily burdened wagons appear from the dusty haze. The wagons were stacked high in sheep and goat skins, from the culled herds outside Abara Delack, destined for somewhere to the south. This was to be his escort.

Wreneck spoke behind him. ‘That’s them.’

Orfantal nodded. He fought the urge to take Wreneck’s hand, knowing the boy would sneer and bat his away. When he’d left the Great House this morning, his grandmother’s only touch had been a bony hand upon his back, pushing him forward and into Wreneck’s care.

‘You can go,’ Orfantal said as the stable boy came round to stand beside him.

But Wreneck shook his head. ‘I’m to make sure you’re on the horse, and that the trunk’s properly loaded. And that they know where to leave you.’

‘But didn’t Grandmother arrange all that?’

Wreneck nodded. ‘Still, I’m to make sure.’

‘All right.’ Though he would not say it, Orfantal was glad of the company. He did not recognize any of the riders, after all; they looked dusty and in bad moods as they rode up and reined in, their hooded gazes fixed upon Orfantal.

One gestured to the trunk as the wagons trundled up, and another rider, old and scar-faced, dismounted to collect it. When he crouched to lift it he had been clearly expecting something heavier, and almost tipped on to his backside when he straightened. He shot Orfantal a quizzical look before carrying the trunk to the first wagon, where the driver reached down and heaved it up to position it behind the backboard of his bench.

Wreneck’s voice was strangely timid as he said, ‘The Citadel. He is nobleborn.’

The lead rider simply nodded.

Turning to Orfantal, Wreneck said, ‘Let me help you on to the horse. Her left eye is bad, so she angles to the right. Keep her head tight and stay on the left side of the track – no horse on her left, I mean, as that spooks her.’

‘I understand.’

Wreneck’s scowl deepened. ‘You’ve never ridden this far all at once. You’ll be sore, but her back’s broad enough and you got a wide saddle here, so if you need to, you can sit cross-legged on her for a break.’

‘All right.’

The stable boy almost threw Orfantal up astride the nag, checked the stirrups once again, and then stepped back. ‘That’s it,’ he said.

Orfantal hesitated, and then said, ‘Goodbye, Wreneck.’

The boy turned away, flinging a wave behind him as he set off up the hill back towards the estate.

‘We ain’t going so fast,’ the lead rider now said. ‘She’ll walk, won’t she?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Sir?’ The man snorted. He took his reins and nudged his mount forward.

Orfantal waited until his mounted companions were past and then kicked his horse into their wake, keeping the beast on the left side of the track. Behind him the oxen jolted into motion at a switch from the driver.

The three wild dogs ran off, as if fearing stones or arrows.

* * *

Wreneck paused on the slope and turned to watch them leave. The tears ran down cool on his cheeks and flies buzzed close.

Back to that evil hag now, and no Orfantal to make life easier, to make it better than it was. She’d forbidden him to play with the little
boy
, and that was mean. She’d told him if she saw him even so much as talking to Orfantal, he’d lose what was left of his job, and then his ma and da would starve and so too his little sisters.

He’d liked playing with the boy. It had reminded him of happier times, when the war was over and things seemed to be getting better for everyone. But then the stables burned down and they’d all heard that Sandalath was being sent away, and then Orfantal too, and the food in the kitchen wasn’t as good as it used to be and half the staff was sent off.

And this was a miserable day, and Orfantal had looked so … lost.

He should have defied her. He should have wrapped the runt in a big hug. They could have played together all morning while they waited. But he had been afraid. Of her. Of what she might do. But maybe this was better – if he’d showed any kindness then this parting would have been worse for Orfantal. A part of him railed at the thought, but he held to it. To ease his mind.

The dogs returned, and, heads slung low, trailed him all the way back to the estate.

* * *

It was dusk by the time the caravan arrived outside Toras Keep, setting up camp in the clearing on the other side of the track opposite the keep’s gate. Blistered and sore from the ride, Orfantal clambered down from the horse. The scarred old man who’d loaded the trunk now came up to take the reins from his hands.

‘Likely her last journey,’ he said, pulling the mount away.

Orfantal stared after them. Riding the animal for so long, he had almost forgotten that it was a living creature, the way it had plodded without surcease. He thought about its life, wondered what things it had witnessed in its long journey through the years. The eyes looked sad – Wreneck hadn’t even told him the mare’s name. He was sure it had one. All living things did, at least those living things that worked for people.

He decided that the mare had once served a warrior in the wars, and had saved that Tiste countless times, yet had looked on helpless when betrayal came to strike down that brave warrior. This was why its eyes were so sad, and now all it longed to do was die, and in so dying re-join its master to haunt old battle grounds and ride through the mist on moonless nights so that villagers heard the heavy hoofs yet saw nothing, and no tracks were left in the mud come the morning. Still, villagers would know that a bold spirit had passed them in the darkness, and they would take up small stones from the path to ease its nightly travels. He’d seen such stones even on this track, in small heaps left to one side, because everyone knew that death was a restless place.

The leader of the troop now approached Orfantal. ‘My name is Haral. You don’t call me “sir” because I ain’t one. I guard merchants and that’s all I do.’

‘Are there bandits?’ Orfantal asked.

‘In the hills round Tulas Hold, sometimes. Deniers. Now, you’ll be sharing Gripp’s tent – that’s the man taking care of your horse. You can trust him, when maybe some of these here you can’t, not with a little boy in the night. Even with you nobleborn and all. Some hurts people keep secret and that’s what bad ones rely on, you see?’