Andarist lowered his head, as if his brother had just vanished before his eyes, and Gripp Galas knew that he would not look up — not until Anomander had departed this place.
Silchas stepped into the chamber, and as Anomander marched past him he reached out and spun his brother round. ‘Do not do this!’ he cried. ‘Take his grief, Anomander! Upon your blade, take it!’
‘And so dull every edge, Silchas? I think not.’
‘Will you leave him to bear it alone?’
‘I am dead in his eyes,’ Anomander said in a cold tone, pulling free. ‘Let him mourn us both.’
Beneath Gripp Galas, Kadaspala laughed softly. ‘I have him now,’ he said in a hiss. ‘His portrait. I have him, at last, I have him. His portrait and his portrait and I have him, on the skin. On the skin. I have him. Wait and see.’ And the mouth beneath those empty sockets twisted with joy, and with the fingers of his hand he began painting the air.
From the hearthstone Andarist wept, and then words spilled from him, loose and filled with despair. ‘Will no one share my grief? Will no one mourn with me?’
Silchas said, ‘I will bring him back.’
But Andarist shook his head. ‘I am blind to him, Silchas. Choose now.’
‘I will bring him back!’
‘Then go,’ whispered Andarist.
Silchas rushed from the chamber.
Kadaspala struggled free of Gripp, pushing with his feet. He rose, tottering, fingers cutting at the air. ‘Listen to them!’ he shrieked. ‘Who sees here? Not them! Only me! Kadaspala, who has no eyes, is the only one who can see!’
‘Kadaspala,’ called Andarist. ‘I hold your sister in my arms. Join me here.’
‘You weep alone,’ the man replied in a voice empty of all sympathy. ‘She was never for you. You made for her this path, with your pathetic words of love and adoration, and she walked it — to her death! Look on me, O forgotten Son of Darkness, for I am your child, your malformed, twisted spawn. In these holes see your future, if you dare!’
‘Enough,’ growled Gripp, advancing on the fool. ‘Your mind is broken and now all you do is lash out.’
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Andarist lowered his head, as if his brother had just vanished before his eyes, and Gripp Galas knew that he would not look up — not until Anomander had departed this place.
Silchas stepped into the chamber, and as Anomander marched past him he reached out and spun his brother round. ‘Do not do this!’ he cried. ‘Take his grief, Anomander! Upon your blade, take it!’
‘And so dull every edge, Silchas? I think not.’
‘Will you leave him to bear it alone?’
‘I am dead in his eyes,’ Anomander said in a cold tone, pulling free. ‘Let him mourn us both.’
Beneath Gripp Galas, Kadaspala laughed softly. ‘I have him now,’ he said in a hiss. ‘His portrait. I have him, at last, I have him. His portrait and his portrait and I have him, on the skin. On the skin. I have him. Wait and see.’ And the mouth beneath those empty sockets twisted with joy, and with the fingers of his hand he began painting the air.
From the hearthstone Andarist wept, and then words spilled from him, loose and filled with despair. ‘Will no one share my grief? Will no one mourn with me?’
Silchas said, ‘I will bring him back.’
But Andarist shook his head. ‘I am blind to him, Silchas. Choose now.’
‘I will bring him back!’
‘Then go,’ whispered Andarist.
Silchas rushed from the chamber.
Kadaspala struggled free of Gripp, pushing with his feet. He rose, tottering, fingers cutting at the air. ‘Listen to them!’ he shrieked. ‘Who sees here? Not them! Only me! Kadaspala, who has no eyes, is the only one who can see!’
‘Kadaspala,’ called Andarist. ‘I hold your sister in my arms. Join me here.’
‘You weep alone,’ the man replied in a voice empty of all sympathy. ‘She was never for you. You made for her this path, with your pathetic words of love and adoration, and she walked it — to her death! Look on me, O forgotten Son of Darkness, for I am your child, your malformed, twisted spawn. In these holes see your future, if you dare!’
‘Enough,’ growled Gripp, advancing on the fool. ‘Your mind is broken and now all you do is lash out.’
Kadaspala spun to face him, grinning. ‘I am not the one wielding vengeance, am I? Run to your master, you grovelling cur of a man. There’s more blood to spill!’
Gripp struck him, his blow sending the artist sprawling. He moved forward again.
‘Stop!’
He looked over to see Hish Tulla, and stepped back. ‘My pardon, milady. I am dragged across a jagged edge. It cuts upon all sides.’
Kadaspala was lying on the floor, quietly laughing and muttering under his breath.
Hish Tulla walked up to Andarist. ‘Do you see my tears?’ she asked him, kneeling and resting a hand against the side of his face. ‘You do not mourn alone, Andarist.’
And she took then the last brother into her arms.
PART FOUR
The Forge of Darkness
SIXTEEN
‘Belief,’ said Draconus, ‘never feels strange to the believer. Like an iron stake driven deep into the ground, it is an anchor to a host of convictions. No winds can tear it free so long as the ground remains firm.’
Riding beside his father, Arathan said nothing. The land ahead was flat, marked only by clusters of low cairns made from piled stones, as if signifying crossroads. But Arathan could see no crossroads; he could barely make out the path they travelled. The sky overhead was a dull blue, like burnished tin, through which vast but distant flocks of birds could be seen, scudding like clouds on high winds.
Draconus sighed. ‘It is the failure of every father to impart wisdom to his child. No paint adheres to sweating stone. You are too eager, too impatient and too quick to dismiss the rewards of someone else’s experience. I am hardly blind to the surge of youth, Arathan.’
‘I have no beliefs,’ said Arathan, shrugging. ‘No anchor, no convictions. If winds take me, then I will drift.’
‘I believe,’ said Draconus, ‘that you seek your mother.’
‘How can I seek what I do not know?’
‘You can and you will, with a need that overwhelms. And should you one day find that which you seek, you no doubt imagine an end to your need. I can warn you that disappointment lies ahead, that life’s most precious gifts always come from unexpected sources, but you will not waver from your desire. Thus, from me you learn nothing.’
Arathan scowled, realizing that he could not hide anything from his father. Deceit was an easy path, but the moment it failed only a fool would stay upon it. ‘You sent her away,’ he said.