‘Beloved First Son, what value my blessing in this?’
Anomander replied, but Galar could not sense from where the words came, or where he stood. ‘Mother, if we are but your children, then our needs remain simple.’
‘But not so easily met,’ she returned.
‘Is clarity not a virtue?’
‘You will now speak of virtue, First Son? The floor beneath your pacing holds firm underfoot, and you would trust in that.’
‘Until I trip, Mother.’
‘And you think this blade will ease your doubts? Or is it my blessing that will serve you thus?’
‘As a blade sliding into a scabbard, Mother, I would have both.’
Mother Dark was silent for a moment, and then she said, ‘Lord of Hust, have you thoughts on virtue?’
‘I know of virtues,’ Henarald answered, ‘but I fear my thoughts are little better than hounds nipping their heels, receiving only a hoof’s kick in reward.’
‘But dogged they remain… those thoughts?’
Henarald’s grunt may have been an appreciative laugh, but Galar could not be certain. ‘Mother Dark, might I suggest now, and here, that the finest virtues are those that flower unseen.’
‘My First Son, alas, paces not through a garden, but on hard stone.’
‘His boots strike expectantly, Mother Dark.’
‘Just so,’ she replied.
There was a frustrated hiss from Anomander. ‘If you have found new strengths, Mother, then I beg to know of them. If not in form then in flavour. In this realm of yours, so like a void desperate to be occupied, we all await the fulfilment of our faith.’
‘I cannot but retreat before your desires, First Son. The more I come to understand this gift of Darkness, the more I comprehend its refusal as necessary. The risk, I now believe, is to be found in the chaining of what must not be chained and the fixing in place of that which must be free to wander. After all, in the measure of every civilization, wandering must one day end; and when it ends, so too ends an unchanging future.’
‘If nothing changes, Mother, then hope must die.’
‘Lord of Hust, would you call peace a virtue?’
Galar felt the old man shift uneasily beside him, and suspected that the sword cradled in Henarald’s arms was growing heavy. ‘My peace is ever an exhausted peace, Mother Dark.’
‘An old man’s answer,’ she murmured, without derision or scorn.
‘I am that,’ Henarald replied.
‘Shall we consider exhaustion a virtue, then?’
‘Ah, forgive me, Mother Dark, this old man’s retort. Exhaustion is no virtue. Exhaustion is failure.’
‘Even if it wins peace?’
‘That is a question for the young,’ Henarald said, his tone sounding abrasive.
‘One day, Hust Henarald, you will be a child again.’
‘Then ask me again, Mother Dark, when that time comes, and I will give you the simple answers you seek, as seen from a simple world, a life lived simply as only a child can live, where a question can drift away before fades the echoes of its utterance. Ask the child and he may well bless you in the name of unknowing peace.’
‘First Son,’ said Mother Dark, ‘there is war in Kurald Galain.’
‘Give me leave to take up the sword, Mother.’
‘In my name? No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because, dear son, I am the prize. What is it you seek to protect? My sanctity? I yield its blunting borders. My virtue? That horse has flown and even the dogs have ceased their howl. My holiness? I knew a life of flesh and blood and not so long ago as to forget. In any case, I admit to not understanding the very notion of holiness. Where is the sacred to be found except in each and every one of us, and who can find it in anyone else when they cannot find it in themselves? The conceit is to look outward, to quest elsewhere and to dream of better worlds beyond this one. For ever at the edge of your reach, brushing the tips of your fingers, and how you all stretch and how you all yearn! I am the prize, First Son. Reach for me.’
‘You will not bless this sword, then?’
‘Dear Anomander, the weapon was blessed in its making. It waits for you, in the trembling arms of the Lord of Hust, for whom this exhaustion is neither peace nor virtue. A most restless child, that blade.’
‘Mother,’ said Anomander, ‘where has Draconus gone?’
‘He would bring me a gift,’ she replied.
‘It seems that is all he does.’
‘Do I hear resentment, First Son? Be careful. Draconus is not your father and therefore cannot suit being your target in such matters. Though there is no shared blood between you, nevertheless he is mine and wholly mine. As are you.’
‘You go too far,’ said Anomander then, in a rasp. ‘By title I call you so, as you ask of me, but mother to me you are not.’
‘Then wash the darkness from your skin, Anomander Purake.’
Her cold tone shivered through Galar Baras. Beside him, he heard Henarald gasping like a man in pain. Galar moved closer to him, felt contact, and reached to take the sword from his lord’s failing arms. As the full weight of the weapon settled in Galar’s hands, he grunted — it felt as if he was holding up an anvil.
Henarald sank to his knees beside Galar, shuddering uncontrollably.
Anomander spoke. ‘Devoid of sanctity, lost to virtue, and oblivious of all that’s holy, what manner of prize are you?’
‘If you would seek me, look inward.’
‘Perhaps that satisfies the priests, Mother, and you to see their feathers twitch above the vellum as if to mock the flight of your fancies. But I am a warrior and you name me your protector. Give me something to defend. Tell me not my enemies, for I already know them well. Advise no strategies, for that is my garden and it is well tended. Touch lips to no banner I raise, for all honour is found in the warrior at my side and my pledge to him or her. Give me a cause to fight for, Mother, to die for if need be. Shall we war over faith? Or fight in the name of justice or against injustice? A sword striking down the demons of inequity? A campaign to save the helpless, or just their souls? Do I fight for food on the table? A dry roof and a warm bed? The unfettered promise of a child’s eyes? Name yourself the prize if you must, but give me a cause.’
There was silence in the chamber.
Galar started at an oath from Anomander — close to his side — and he felt the sword taken hold of and then pulled from his hands, snatched away light as a reed.
Boots sounded behind him and suddenly the door was swung open and pale light spilled on to the stone floor around his feet. He looked across to see Kellaras, his skin the breath of midnight, stumbling into his master’s wake as Anomander strode from the chamber.
Galar crouched to help lift Henarald to his feet.
The old man seemed barely conscious, his eyes closed, his head lolling, and the spit hanging from his mouth had frozen solid. ‘What?’ the Lord of Hust whispered. ‘What has happened?’
I know not. ‘It is done, Lord.’
‘Done?’
‘The sword is blessed, Lord.’
‘Are you certain?’
Galar helped Henarald across the threshold, and then reached back to pull shut the door. He looked around and saw that Anomander and Kellaras were already well down the corridor. ‘All is well,’ he told the Lord of Hust.
‘The child… the child…’
‘He has it, Lord. In his hands. He has the sword.’
‘Take me home, Galar.’
‘I shall, Lord.’
The old man he helped down the corridor was not the old man who had walked into the Chamber of Night,
