Grizzin Farl let his gaze slide away from the warrior opposite him, out into the tavern’s sullen crowd, the layers of pipe- and woodsmoke. Conversations were rarely worth listening to, when people were in the habit of repeating themselves, as if by each utterance they sought a different response. Find a truth and make it into a chant. Find a falsehood and do the same. Assemble truths and lies and name it faith. Taverns and temples, see the libations flow, and all the sacrifices made. Here is a truth. Wherever mortals gather, ritual will rise, and in each place of ritual, habit and gesture invoke a hidden comfort. In these patterns, we would map our world.
‘You do not deny it, then?’
Grizzin started, and then sighed. ‘My friend, forgive me for mocking your noble pretensions. I see them too clearly to do otherwise.’
‘Why do you call me friend? Why, more to the point, do I consider you the same?’
‘My words anger you, Silchas, and yet you indulge that anger for but a moment before you see through the red haze, and must accept the truth of what I say, no matter how bleak or uncomplimentary it proves. I do admire this in you, sir.’
‘When we converse, I feel the strain of my temper.’
‘It will not snap,’ Grizzin said.
‘If it did? You clearly do not fear it.’
‘I gave up on fear long ago.’
At that, Silchas leaned forward, eyes narrow. ‘Now that is an admission! Tell me, pray, how you managed it?’
A brief flash clouded Grizzin’s mind as he saw himself reflected in broken glass, staggering from a place of slaughter. ‘When we lash out,’ he said, ‘we do so from fear. Recall, if you will, your every breaking of temper, the shock of it once you have struck, once you have done damage. In a sane mind, the act makes one recoil, dousing the fires inside. And with it, the first fear dies, only to have a new one take its place – the fear of the consequences of your violence. Two arguments, but only one voice. Two causes, but only one response. When you at last understand this, my friend, then the voice that is fear grows most tiresome. It repeats itself and so proves its own stupidity, and if by its stupid words you are led into violence, a relinquishing of all control, then you can only be a fool. A fool,’ Grizzin Farl repeated, ‘gullible and not very bright. When you match the stupidity of your fear, you insult your own intelligence, and with it all belief in yourself.’
Silchas was studying him. ‘Azathanai, you must understand, an entire people can be consumed by such fear.’
‘And so it lashes out, often against itself – against kin, against neighbour. Fear, in such a time, becomes a wild fever, burning all that it touches. And yes, it is utterly stupid.’
‘Imagine, Azathanai, that fear when given the power possible in magic. You invite a world in flames.’
‘Where you will, perhaps, thrive?’
With a troubled expression now on his pale face, Silchas sat back once more. ‘You have swung me about, Azathanai, to winter’s worship. May the season never end.’
‘When will you summon the Hust Legion?’
Silchas blinked, and then shrugged. ‘Soon, I think. It is absurd. We assemble a rabble armed with insane iron, to fling against the realm’s finest army.’
‘And the Houseblades of the Great Houses?’
‘I am surprised this interests you.’
‘The Houseblades do not, to be honest,’ admitted Grizzin Farl. ‘But I see something awaiting the Hust Legion – too vague to be certain. Only a sense of foreboding, as if a fate is taking shape, a future as yet unimaginable.’
‘They may well be cursed now,’ Silchas said. ‘A legion made into our realm’s madness. There is no glory to be found walking from graves, Grizzin Farl. Nor from mining pits, or freshly dug barrows. Whatever spirit Hust Henarald imbued into the iron from his forges, the murder of three thousand men and women now taints it. So, you wonder why I still hesitate in summoning such an army?’
‘The fate awaiting them is beyond you, Lord Silchas.’
‘Indeed? Then who will deliver it?’
‘I am poor at prophecy,’ Grizzin Farl said. ‘Still, though I see nothing but a blur, I hear a voice, and words spoken in the tone of command.’
‘But not mine.’
‘No. The voice I hear belongs to Anomander.’
Silchas let out a sudden sigh. ‘Then he returns. Good. I am truly done with this. Tell me, Azathanai, are there any quicker paths to sorcery?’
The question ran like ice through Grizzin Farl. He dropped his gaze to the tankard in his hands, seeing the
lurid play of lamplight upon the surface of the ale within. ‘None,’ he said, ‘you would welcome.’