Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy, #1)

by Steven Erikson

Men like him were easy to paint. They might well have depths, but those depths were all of one colour, one tone. They were devoid of mystery, and this was what made them such powerful leaders. There was something frightening in that unrelieved monochrome, and yet it seemed to reassure others, as if it were a source of strength.

Words were no gift, said Haut. They were tangled nets snaring all who ventured into their midst, until an entire people could hang helpless, choking on their own arguments, even as dissolution closed in on all sides. The Jaghut had rejected that path. Defying the eternal plea for communication among peoples, in the name of understanding, peace or whatever, they had stopped talking, even with each other.

‘Is she a mute?’ ‘She’s never said as much,’ Haut replied.

What value history when no one heeds it anyway?

The boy needed his heroes. Everyone did. And for Orfantal, his father would be a man impervious to infamy, unsullied by visible flaws, the obvious weaknesses that every child eventually saw in their living parents.

Peace did not serve order; order served peace, and when order became godlike, sacrosanct and inviolate, then the peace thus won became a prison, and those who sought their freedom became enemies to order, and in the elimination of such enemies, peace was lost.

Do not let the title of scholar, or poet, or lord, intimidate you overmuch. More importantly, do not delude yourself into imagining that such men and women are loftier, or somehow cleverer or purer of integrity or ideal than you or any other commoner. We live in a world of facades, but the grins behind them are all equally wretched.’

In society we find the seeds of its own destruction?’ ‘Perhaps, but they miss the point. It is the absence of society that leads to destruction. When concord is lost, when arguments cease and in opposition neither side sees the other as kin, as brother and sister, then all manner of atrocity is possible.’

‘When one loves all things of the world, when one has that gift of joy, it is not the armour against grief that you might think it to be. Such a person stands balanced on the edge of sadness – there is no other way for it, because to love as he does is to see clearly. Clearly. Andarist smiles in the understanding that sadness stalks him, step by step, moment by moment. If you wound him – a thousand small wounds of disregard or indifference – until he stumbles and weakens, sorrow will find him and cut through to his heart.’

When faiths take knife in hand, surely every god must turn away.

It was this that so disturbed her. Soldiers already possessed the means and the skills to impose violence or brandish its threat. To yield and heap wealth and land on them could only nurture the gardens of greed and ambition, and these were poison fruit that every highborn well understood. Position and privilege imposed responsibilities. Unquestionably the defence of the realm was also a great responsibility. But defence against whom? With all enemies beyond the borders vanquished, who remains to stand in their stead, but those within our borders? An army is a fist poised to strike, but that clenching of fingers and focus of desire cannot be held for ever. It is made to strike and strike it must.

‘Power should never be a gift,’ Arathan said. ‘An interesting assertion, from one so powerless. But I will listen. Go on.’ ‘Gifts are rarely appreciated,’ Arathan said, and in his mind he was remembering his first night with Feren. ‘And the one who receives knows only confusion. At first. And then hunger … for more. And in that hunger, there is expectation, and so the gift ceases being a gift, and becomes payment, and to give itself becomes a privilege and to receive it a right. By this all sentiment sours.’

Now tell me, why do I dislike tales?’ ‘Because they imply a unity that does not exist.

We deceive ourselves if we imagine that we proceed through life with any semblance of control over what is to come, and we should be thankful for the humility. For if it had been otherwise, if indeed every event in history were guided by our hands, then we have long since relinquished any claim to virtue. Every triumph we might weigh would be little more than a redressing of scales to answer our own crimes in the past.’ He gestured, as if dismissing not only his own words, but all of history and its host of sordid truths.

And so I make masks of the worst in me and fling them upon the faces of my enemies, and would commit slaughter on all that I despise in myself.