In the dark conjurings of a sentient mind, all that is imagined can be made real. The beast, and the shadow it casts. The beast’s shadow, and the light from which it is born. Each torn away, made distinct, made into things of nightmare.
Philosophers and fools might claim that light is without shape, that it finds its existence in painting the shape of other things, as wayward as the opening of an eye. That, in the absence of such things, it slants unseen, indeed, invisible. Without other things to strike upon, it does not cavort, does not bounce, does not paint and reflect. Rather, it flows eternal. If this is so, then light is unique in the universe.
But the universe holds to one law above all others: nothing is unique.
Fools and philosophers have not, alas, seen the light.
Conjure the shapes of beasts, of Hounds and monsters, fiends and nightmares. Of light, of dark, and of shadow. A handful of clay, a gifted breath of life, and forces will seethe in the conflicts inscribed upon their souls.
The Deragoth are the dark, and in their savage solidity would claim ownership of the shadows they cast. Lock and Pallid, however, are the light that gave the Deragoth shape, without whom neither the Deragoth nor the Hounds of Shadow would exist. If the hunters and the hunted so will, one day the beasts shall come together, baleful in mutual regard, perhaps even eager to annihilate one another, and then, in a single instant of dumbfounded astonishment, vanish one and all. Ha hah.
Not all instincts guide one to behaviours of survival. Life is mired in stupidity, after all, and the smarter the life, the stupider it can be. The Hounds of Shadow were neither brilliant nor brainless. They were, in fact, rather clever.
Salutations to this tripartite universe, so mutually insistent. And why not? It doesn’t even exist, except in the caged mind that so needs simplification.
A mind, mused Cotillion, like mine.
He glanced across at his companion. But not his. When you stand at the centre of the game, no questions arise. How can that be? What is it like, to be the storm’s eye? What happens, dear Shadowthrone, when you blink?
‘This,’ muttered Shadowthrone, ‘was unexpected.’
‘A damned complication,’ Cotillion agreed. ‘We need the Hounds there, just to ensure nothing goes awry.’
Shadowthrone snorted. ‘It always goes awry. Gods below, I’ve had to use that mad High Priest again.’
‘Iskaral Pust.’ After a moment, Cotillion realized he was smiling. He quickly cast away that expression, since if Shadowthrone saw it he might well go apoplectic. ‘Lovely as she is, Sordiko Qualm is not insurance enough, not for this, anyway.’
‘Nor is Pust!’ snapped Shadowthrone.
They watched the Hounds drawing closer, sensed the beasts’ collective curiosity at this unplanned intercession. Their task now, after all, was simple. Straightforward, even.
Cotillion glanced back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing on the gaunt figure walking towards them. Well, not precisely – the stranger was on his way to a damned reunion, and what would come of that?
‘Too many histories, too many half-truths and outright lies.’ Shadowthrone snarled every word of that statement. ‘Pups of the Tiste Edur – any one will do, it seems, if they know the old commands. But now . . .’
‘According to my, er, research, its name is Tulas Shorn, and no, I do not know the gender and what seems to be left of it doesn’t look as if it will provide enough detail to decide either way.’
Shadowthrone grunted, and then said, ‘At least it’s sembled – oh, how I hate dragons! If vermin had a throne, they’d be on it.’
‘Everywhere there’s a mess, they’re in the middle of it, all right. Eleint, Soletaken – hardly a difference, when it comes to trouble.’
‘The chaos of their blood, Cotillion. Imagine how dull it would be without them . . . and I so cherish dullness.’
If you say so.
‘So,’ Shadowthrone resumed, ‘how does all this fit with your ridiculously convoluted theories?’
‘They’re only convoluted because they are without substance – if you’ll kindly excuse that inadvertent pun. Light, Dark, Shadow. Hounds of this and that and that. These beasts may exist only because of semantics.’
Shadowthrone snorted. ‘You don’t have to clean up after them – the only possible excuse for such an idiotic suggestion. They smell, they slaver and slobber, they scratch and they lick, Cotillion. Oh, and they tear things to pieces. When it suits them.’
‘Because we expect them to.’
‘Really now.’
‘Listen – what was the mess behind the origin of the Deragoth? Wild beasts from the dusty aeons of past ages, seven left in all the world, and the First Emperor – who was anything but – chooses them as the repositories of his divided soul. All very well, but then we have the Hounds of Shadow, and, presumably, the Hounds of Light—’
‘They’re just damned albinos, Cotillion, a detail probably irrelevant, and besides, there’re only two of them—’
‘That we know of, and we know of them only because they wandered into our realm – why? What or who summoned them?’
‘I did, of course.’
‘How?’
Shadowthrone shrugged. ‘I mused out loud on the need for . . . replacements.’
‘And that constitutes summoning? I believe I have also heard you musing on the “need” for a breathlessly beautiful Queen of Shadow, a slave to your every desire—’
‘You were hiding behind the curtain! I knew it!’
‘The point is, where is she?’
The question was left unanswered, as Tulas Shorn had arrived, halting ten paces before them. ‘It seems,’ the undead Tiste Edur said, ‘my Hounds have found new . . . pets.’
‘Saw his head off, Cotillion,’ Shadowthrone said. ‘I hate him already.’
Shan slid up beside Cotillion, eyes fixed on Tulas Shorn. A moment later Baran, Rood, Blind and Gear arrived, padding round the rulers of the Realm of Shadow, and onward to encircle the Tiste Edur.
Who held out his hands, as if inviting the beasts to draw close.
None did.
‘They preferred you living, I think,’ Cotillion observed. ‘The dead surrender so much.’
‘If only my sentiments were dead,’ Tulas Shorn said, then sighed as it lowered its hands to its sides once more. ‘Still, it pleases me to see them. But two are missing.’
At that Cotillion glanced round. ‘Well, you’re right.’
‘Killed?’
‘Killed,’ confirmed Shadowthrone.
‘Who?’
‘Anomander Rake.’
At the name Tulas Shorn started.
‘Still around,’ said Shadowthrone, ‘yes. Hee hee. Houndslayer.’
‘And neither of you strong enough to avenge the slayings, it seems. I am astonished that my Hounds have accepted such feeble masters.’
‘I thought it was pets. No matter. Ganrod and Doan died because they were precipitate. Blame poor training. I do.’
‘I am of a mind to test you,’ said Tulas Shorn after a moment.
‘You want the Throne of Shadow, do you?’
‘My first rule was cut short. I have learned since—’
‘Hardly. You died.’ Shadowthrone waved one ephemeral hand. ‘Whatever you learned, you did not learn well enough. Obviously.’
‘You seem certain of that.’
‘He is,’ said Cotillion.
‘Is it simply megalomania, then, that so afflicts him?’
‘Well, yes, but that’s beside the point.’
‘And what is the point?’
‘That you clearly have not learned anything worthwhile.’
‘And why do you say that?’
‘Because you’ve just said that you were of a mind to test us.’
Tulas Shorn cocked its head. ‘Do you imagine the Hounds will defend you?’
‘These ones? Probably not.’
‘Then—’ But the rest of his statement was left unfinished, as Lock and Palli
d arrived, heads low, hackles upright like spines, to flank Shadowthrone and Cotillion. Upon seeing them, Tulas Shorn stepped back. ‘By the Abyss,’ it whispered, ‘have you two lost your minds? They cannot be here – they must not be among you—’
‘Why?’ Cotillion demanded, leaning forward in sudden interest.
But the Tiste Edur simply shook its head.
The two bone-white Hounds looked barely restrained, moments from exploding into a deadly charge. The hate was avid in their eyes.
‘Why?’ Cotillion asked again.
‘The . . . implacability of forces – we think to tame, but the wildness remains. Control is a delusion in the mind of self-proclaimed masters.’ And that last word dripped with contempt. ‘The leash, you fools, is frayed – don’t you understand anything at all?’
‘Perhaps—’
Tulas Shorn lifted both hands again, but this time in a warding gesture. ‘We thought the same, once. We’d deceived ourselves into thinking we were the masters, that every force bowed to our command. And what happened? They destroyed everything!’
‘I don’t—’
‘Understand? I see that! They are conjurations – manifestations – they exist to warn you. They are the proof that all that you think to enslave will turn on you.’ And it backed away. ‘The end begins again, it begins again.’
Cotillion stepped forward. ‘Light, Dark and Shadow – these three – are you saying—’ ‘Three?’ Tulas Shorn laughed with savage bitterness. ‘What then of Life? Fire and Stone and Wind? What, you fools, of the Hounds of Death? Manifestations, I said. They will turn – they are telling you that! That is why they exist! The fangs, the fury – all that is implacable in nature – each aspect but a variation, a hue in the maelstrom of destruction!’
Tulas Shorn was far enough away now, and the Tiste Edur began veering into a dragon.
As one, all seven Hounds surged forward – but they were too late, as the enormous winged creature launched skyward, rising on a wave of appalling power that sent Cotillion staggering back; that blew through Shadowthrone until he seemed half shredded.
The Soletaken dragon rose higher, as if riding on a column of pure panic, or horror. Or dismay. A pillar reaching for the heavens. Far above, the Great Ravens scattered.
Recovering, Cotillion turned on Shadowthrone. ‘Are we in trouble?’
The ruler of High House Shadow slowly collected himself back into a vaguely human shape. ‘I can’t be sure,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘Why, because I blinked.’
Up ahead, the Hounds had resumed their journey. Lock loped a tad too close alongside Shan and she snarled the beast off.
Tongue lolled, jaw hanging in silent laughter.
So much for lessons in hubris.
There were times, Kallor reflected, when he despised his own company. The day gloried in its indifference, the sun a blinding blaze tracking the turgid crawl of the landscape. The grasses clung to the hard earth the way they always did, seeds drifting on the wind as if on sighs of hope. Tawny rodents stood sentinel above warren holes and barked warnings as he marched past. The shadows of circling hawks rippled across his path every now and then.
Despising himself was, oddly enough, a comforting sensation, for he knew he was not alone in his hate. He could recall times, sitting on a throne as if he and it had merged into one, as immovable and inviolate as one of the matching statues outside the palace (any one of his innumerable palaces), when he would feel the oceanic surge of hate’s tide. His subjects, tens, hundreds of thousands, each and every one wishing him dead, cast down, torn to pieces. Yet what had he been but the perfect, singular representative of all that they despised within themselves? Who among them would not eagerly take his place? Casting down foul judgements upon all whose very existence offended?
He had been, after all, the very paragon of acquisitiveness. Managing to grasp what others could only reach for, to gather into his power a world’s arsenal of weapons, and reshape that world in hard cuts, to make of it what he willed – not one would refuse to take his place. Yes, they could hate him; indeed, they must hate him, for he embodied the perfection of success, and his very existence mocked their own failures. And the violence he delivered? Well, watch how it played out in smaller scenes everywhere – the husband who cannot satisfy his wife, so he beats her down with his fists. The streetwise adolescent bully, pinning his victim to the cobbles and twisting the hapless creature’s arm. The noble walking past the starving beggar. The thief with the avaricious eye – no, none of these is any different, not in their fundamental essence.
So, hate Kallor even as he hates himself. Even in that, he will do it better. Innate superiority expressed in all manner of ways. See the world gnash its teeth – he answers with a most knowing smile.
He walked, the place where he had begun far, far behind him now, and the place to where he was going drawing ever closer, step by step, as inexorable as this crawling landscape. Let the sentinels bark, let the hawks muse with wary eye. Seeds ride his legs, seeking out new worlds. He walked, and in his mind memories unfolded like worn packets of parchment, seamed and creased; scurried up from the bottom of some burlap sack routed as rats, crackling as they opened up in a rain of flattened moths and insect carcasses.
Striding white-faced and blood-streaked down a jewel-studded hallway, dragging by an ankle the corpse of his wife – just one in a countless succession – her arms trailing behind her limp as dead snakes, their throats slashed open. There had been no warning, no patina of dust covering her eyes when she fixed him with their regard that morning, as he sat ordering the Century Candles in a row on the table between them. As he invited her into a life stretched out, the promise of devouring for ever – no end to the feast awaiting them, no need ever to exercise anything like restraint. They would speak and live the language of excess. They would mark out the maps of interminable expansion, etching the ambitions they could now entertain. Nothing could stop them, not even death itself.
Some madness had afflicted her, like the spurt and gush of a nicked artery – there could be no other cause. Madness it had been. Insanity, to have flung away so much. Of what he offered her. So much, yes, of him. Or so he had told himself at the time, and for decades thereafter. It had been easier that way.
He knew now why she had taken her own life. To be offered everything was to be shown what she herself was capable of – the depthless reach of her potential depravity, the horrors she would entertain, the plucking away of every last filament of sensitivity, leaving her conscience smooth, cool to the touch, a thing maybe alive, maybe not, a thing nothing could prod awake. She had seen, yes, just how far she might take herself . . . and had then said no.
Another sweet packet, unfolding with the scent of flowers. He knelt beside Vaderon, his war horse, as the animal bled out red foam, its one visible eye fixed on him, as if wanting to know: was it all worth this? What has my life purchased you, my blood, the end of my days?
A battlefield spread out on all sides. Heaps of the dead and the dying, human and beast, Jheck and Tartheno Toblakai, a scattering of Forkrul Assail each one surrounded by hundreds of the fallen, the ones protecting their warleaders, the ones who failed in taking the demons down. And there was no dry ground, the blood was a shallow sea thickening in the heat, and more eyes looked upon nothing than scanned the nightmare seeking friends and kin.
Voices cried, but they seemed distant – leagues away from Kallor where he knelt beside Vaderon, unable to pull his gaze from that one fixating eye. Promises of brotherhood, flung into the crimson mud. Silent vows of honour, courage, service and reward, all streaming down the broken spear shaft jutting from the animal’s massive, broad chest. And yes, Vaderon had reared to take that thrust, a thrust aimed at Kallor himself, because this horse was too stupid to understand anything.
That Kallor had begun this war, had welcomed the slaughter, the mayhem.
That Kallor, this master now kneeling at its side, was in truth a bruta
l, despicable man, a bag of skin filled with venom and spite, with envy and a child’s selfish snarl that in losing took the same from everyone else.
Vaderon, dying. Kallor, dry-eyed and damning himself for his inability to weep. To feel regret, to sow self-recrimination, to make promises to do better the next time round.
I am as humankind, he often told himself. Impervious to lessons. Pitiful in loss and defeat, vengeful in victory. With every possible virtue vulnerable to exploitation and abuse by others, could they claim dominion, until such virtues became hollow things, sweating beads of poison. I hold forth goodness and see it made vile, and do nothing, voice no complaint, utter no disavowal. The world I make I have made for one single purpose – to chew me up, me and everyone else. Do not believe this bewildered expression. I am bemused only through stupidity, but the clever among me know better, oh, yes they do, even as they lie through my teeth, to you and to themselves.
Kallor walked, over one shoulder a burlap sack ten thousand leagues long and bulging with folded packets. So different from everyone else. Ghost horses run at his side. Wrist-slashed women show bloodless smiles, dancing round the rim of deadened lips. And where dying men cry, see his shadow slide past.
‘I want things plain,’ said Nenanda. ‘I don’t want to have to work.’ And then he looked up, belligerent, quick to take affront.
Skintick was bending twigs to make a stick figure. ‘But things aren’t plain, Nenanda. They never are.’
‘I know that, just say it straight, that’s all.’
‘You don’t want your confusion all stirred up, you mean.’
Nimander roused himself. ‘Skin—’
But Nenanda had taken the bait – and it was indeed bait, since for all that Skintick had seemed intent on his twigs, he had slyly noted Nenanda’s diffidence. ‘Liars like confusion. Liars and thieves, because they can slip in and slip out, when there’s confusion. They want your uncertainty, but there’s nothing uncertain in what they want, is there? That’s how they use you – you’re like that yourself sometimes, Skintick, with your clever words.’
‘Wait, how can they use me if I am them?’