Forge of Darkness (8 page)

Some people suited their transformations, into paint on board, as dyed plaster on walls, or in the unrelieved purity of marble. They existed as both surface and opaque solidity, and it was this quality that Kadaspala found so cruel and monstrous, for it spoke of the will of the world. He knew he played his role. He gave the substance to their assertion of power.

Portraits were the weapons of tradition, and tradition was the
invisible
army laying siege to the present. And what was at stake? What victory did it seek? To make the future no different from the past. With every stroke of his brush, Kadaspala opened a wound, against all who would challenge the way things were. He fought that bitter knowledge, perversely setting his talents to the battlements as if he would refuse his own advance.

He wished he were less aware; he wished that his own talent could somehow blind him to its insipid appropriation. But this was not to be.

Thoughts churning, as they always did following a sitting, he dressed with haphazard indifference and made his way out, down to dine with the Lord of the House. Would it be this night, then, that Urusander or Hunn Raal finally broached the possibility of painting young Osserc? Kadaspala hoped not. He hoped that moment would never come.

Finish the portrait of the father, and then flee this place.
Return home, to see her again
.

He dreaded these formal suppers. They were filled with banal reminiscences of battle, mostly from Hunn Raal, warring with Urusander’s daily discoveries when delving into the arcane idiocy of the Forulkan. With Osserc’s head turning as if on a spike. There was nothing in the Lord’s son that he wanted to paint, no depths to seek out. Behind Osserc’s eyes there was bedrock, disfigured by Hunn Raal’s incessant chipping away. The boy was destined for obscurity, unless he could be prised away from his father and his so-called friend. As it stood, the combination of Urusander’s raising high unassailable walls around his son, and Hunn Raal’s ceaseless undermining of those foundations, left Osserc in genuine danger. Should something lead to a collapse of his world he might well be utterly crushed. In the meantime the sheer oppression was visibly suffocating the young man.

No matter. None of this was Kadaspala’s problem. He had plenty of his own to worry about.
Mother Dark’s power grows, and with that power, she is stealing the light. From the world. What future has an artist, when all is in darkness?

Mulling on these bleak thoughts, he strode into the dining room. And then paused. The chairs where he had expected to see Hunn Raal and Osserc seated were both vacant. Lord Urusander sat alone at his place at the table’s head, and for once the surface before him was uncluttered – not a single fired-clay cylinder or unfurled scroll of notations weighted down at the corners and awaiting his studious perusal.

Urusander was leaning back, in one hand a goblet, cradled at his waist. His faded blue eyes were fixed on the artist with an acuity that was unprecedented in his recollection. ‘Good Kadaspala Enes, please sit. No, here, upon my right. It seems that this evening it shall be you and me.’

‘I see, my lord.’ He made his way over. The moment he arrived and seated himself, a servant appeared with a goblet to match the Lord’s. Taking it, he looked down. Blackvine, the rarest and most expensive wine in the realm.

‘I was looking upon your day’s work,’ Urusander continued.

‘Indeed, Lord?’

Urusander’s eyes flickered slightly, the only detail to signal his mood, and that signal was obscure. ‘You are not curious as to my opinion?’

‘No.’

The Lord sipped, and it could have been stale water that passed his lips for all the change in his expression. ‘One may presume, I hope, that the notion of an audience is relevant to you.’

‘Relevant, Lord? Oh, it’s relevant … to an extent. But if you imagine that I yearn for a heavenly chorus of opinion, then you must think me naïve. If I were to require such reward as if it were the blood of life, why, I would starve. As would virtually every other artist in Kurald Galain.’

‘So opinions are without value?’

‘I value only those that please me, Lord.’

‘Then would you deny the potential worth of constructive criticism?’

‘That depends,’ Kadaspala replied, still to taste the wine.

‘Upon what?’ Urusander asked, as servants appeared once more, this time with the first course. Plates whispered down, the air was stirred by bodies in motion behind and around the two men, and the candles on the table flickered and dipped this way and that.

‘How fare your studies, Lord?’

‘You evade my question?’

‘I choose my own path to answering it.’

Neither anger nor patronizing amusement touched Urusander’s worn face. ‘Very well. The issue I am struggling with is one of moral stance. Written law is in itself pure, at least in so far as language can make it. Ambiguity emerges only in its practical application upon society, and at this point hypocrisy seems to be the inevitable consequence. The law bends to those in power, like a willow or perhaps a cultured rosebush, or even a fruit-bearing tree trained against a wall. Where it grows depends upon the whims of those in power, and before too long, why, the law becomes a twisted thing indeed.’

Kadaspala set the goblet down, eyed the food on the plate before him. Smoked meat, some kind of glazed vegetable, positioned in a way as if to regard each other. ‘But are not laws little more than formalized opinions, Lord?’

Urusander’s brows lifted. ‘I begin to see the direction of your thoughts, Kadaspala. To answer you, yes, they are. Opinions on the proper and peaceful governance of society—’

‘Excuse me, but peaceful is not a word that comes to my mind when thinking of law. At its core is subjugation, after all.’

Urusander considered, and then said, ‘Only in the matter of mitigating damaging or antisocial behaviour, and at this point I return you to my first comment. That is, of moral stance. It is the very matter with which I am struggling, with little forward progress, I admit. So,’ he took another sip and then set the goblet down and picked up his knife, ‘let us set aside the notion of “peaceful” for the moment. Consider the very foundation of the matter, namely, that law exists to impose rules of acceptable behaviour in social discourse, yes? Good, then let us add the notion of protecting one from harm, both physical and spiritual, and, well, you see the dilemma.’

Kadaspala considered that for a moment, and then he shook his head. ‘Laws decide which forms of oppression are allowed, Lord. And because of that, those laws are servants to those in power, for whom oppression is given as a right over those who have little or no power. Now, shall we return to art, Lord? When stripped down to its bones, criticism is a form of oppression. Its intent is to manipulate both artist and audience, by imposing rules on aesthetic appreciation. Curiously, its first task is to belittle the views of those who appreciate a certain work but are unable or unwilling to articulate their reasons for doing so. On occasion, of course, one of those viewers rises to the bait, taking umbrage at being dismissed as being ignorant, at which point critics en masse descend to annihilate the fool. No more than defending one’s own precious nest, one presumes. But on another level, it is the act of those in power in protecting their interests, those interests being nothing less than absolute oppression through the control of personal taste.’

Urusander had sat motionless through this, knife point thrust through a sliver of meat and suspended halfway to his mouth. When Kadaspala finished, he set the knife down and reached once more for his wine. ‘But I am not a critic,’ he said.

‘Indeed not, Lord, which is why I said I wasn’t curious about your opinion. I am curious about the opinions of critics. But about the opinions of those with no agenda beyond the aesthetic, I am
interested
.’

Urusander snorted. ‘Take some wine, Kadaspala, you have just earned it.’

The mouthful he took was modest.

‘Other nights when we sit here,’ Urusander said, now frowning, ‘you will finish off an entire carafe on your own.’

‘Other nights, Lord, I am subjected to war stories.’

Urusander laughed, the sound startling the servants with its booming thunder. Somewhere in the kitchen something crashed down to the stone floor.

‘The wine,’ said Kadaspala, ‘is exceptional, Lord.’

‘It is, isn’t it? And do you know why I have not served it before this night?’

‘Every morning, Lord, I check my jugs of cleaning spirits, to ensure Hunn Raal has not plundered them.’

‘Just so, artist, just so. Now, let us eat, but keep your wits about you. On this night, let us stretch our minds in dialogue.’

Kadaspala spoke with utter honesty. ‘Lord, pray we talk these candles down as the only measure of the evening’s passage.’

Urusander’s eyes were narrow and thoughtful. ‘I was warned to expect nothing but foul and bitter regard when in your company.’

‘Only when I paint, Lord. Only when I paint. Now, if it pleases you, I am interested in hearing your thoughts on my work thus far.’

‘My thoughts? I have but one, Kadaspala. I had no idea I was so transparent.’

He nearly dropped the goblet. Only the quick intercession of a servant saved him.

* * *

Enesdia, daughter of Lord Jaen of House Enes, stood frowning at the silvered mirror. The dye in the dress was said to come from a tuberous vegetable, which when simmered produced a deep and pure scarlet. ‘It’s the colour of blood,’ she said. ‘This is what everyone in Kharkanas is going mad for?’

The seamstresses flanking her in the reflection looked pale and drab, almost lifeless.

Seated off to the left on a settee, Cryl of House Durav cleared his throat in a manner all too familiar to Enesdia, and she turned, brows lifting, and said, ‘And what shall we argue about this morning, then? The cut of the dress? The style of the court? Or is it my hair that now dismays you? As it happens, I like it short. The shorter the better. Why should you complain about it, anyway? It’s not as though
you’ve
let your hair go long as a horse tail just to fit in with the day’s fashion. Oh, I don’t know why I invited you in at all.’

Mild surprise played with his even features for the briefest of moments, and then he offered up a lopsided shrug. ‘I was just thinking, it’s more vermilion than scarlet, isn’t it. Or is it our eyes that are changing?’

‘Idiotic superstitions. Vermilion … well.’

‘Dog-Runner wives call it the “Born of the Hearth”, don’t they?’

‘That’s because they boil the root, fool.’

‘Oh, I would think the name more descriptive than that.’

‘Would you now? Haven’t you somewhere to be, Cryl? Some horse to train? Some sword to whet?’

‘You invite me only to then send me away?’ The young man rose
smoothly
. ‘If I were a sensitive soul, I might be offended. As it is, I know this game – we have played it all our lives, haven’t we?’

‘Game? What game?’

He had been making for the door, but now he paused and glanced back, and there was something sad in his faint smile. ‘I hope you’ll excuse me, I have a horse to whet and a sword to train. Although, I should add, you look lovely in that dress, Enesdia.’

Even as she drew a breath, mind racing for something that made sense – that might even draw him snapping back on his leash – he slipped out and was gone.

One of the seamstresses sighed, and Enesdia rounded on her. ‘Enough of that, Ephalla! He is a hostage in this house and is to be accorded the highest respect!’

‘Sorry, mistress,’ Ephalla whispered, ducking. ‘But he spoke true – you look lovely!’

Enesdia returned her attention to the blurred image of herself in the mirror. ‘But,’ she murmured, ‘do you think
he’ll
like it?’

* * *

Cryl paused for a moment in the corridor outside Enesdia’s door, near enough to hear the last exchange between her and her handmaid. The sad half-smile on his face remained, only fading as he set out towards the main hall.

He was nineteen years old, the last eleven of those spent here in the house of Jaen Enes as a hostage. He was old enough to understand the value of the tradition. For all that the word ‘hostage’ carried an implicit pejorative, caged in notions of imprisonment and the absence of personal freedom, the practice was more of an exchange than anything else. It was further bound by rules and proscriptions ensuring the rights of the hostage. The sanctity of their person was immutable, precious as a founding law. Accordingly, Cryl, born of House Durav, felt as much an Enes as Jaen, Kadaspala or, indeed, Jaen’s daughter.

And this was … unfortunate. His childhood friend was a girl no longer, but a woman. And gone were his childish thoughts, his dreams of pretending she was in truth his own sister – although he now recognized the confusions swirling through such dreams. For a boy, the role of sister, wife and mother could – if one were careless – be so easily blended together into a heady brew of anguished longing. He’d not known what he’d wanted of her, but he had seen how their friendship had changed, and in that change a wall had grown between them, impassable, forbidding and patrolled by stern propriety. There had been moments of awkwardness, when either he or Enesdia stumbled too close to one another, only to be drawn up by freshly chiselled stone, the touch of which yielded embarrassment and shame.