Thoroughly alone, then, for most of this day.
Until now.
‘There are countless paths awaiting you.’
Cutter sighed. ‘Hello, Cotillion. I was wondering if you’d show up . . . again.’
‘Again?’
‘You spoke with Apsalar. Here in this very chamber. You helped her decide.’
‘She told you?’
He shook his head. ‘Not entirely.’
‘Her decision was hers to make, Cutter. Hers alone.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Never mind. Odd, though. You see countless paths. Whilst I see . . . none worth walking.’
‘Do you seek, then, something worthy?’
Cutter slowly closed his eyes, then sighed. ‘What would you have me do?’
‘There was a man, once, whose task was to guard the life of a young girl. He did the best he could—with such honour as to draw, upon his sad death, the attention of Hood himself. Oh, the Lord of Death will look into a mortal’s soul, given the right circumstances. The, uh, the proper incentive. Thus, that man is now the Knight of Death—’
‘I don’t want to be Knight of anything, nor for anyone, Cotillion—’
‘The wrong track, lad. Let me finish my tale. This man did the best he could, but he failed. And now the girl is dead. She was named Felisin. Of House Paran.’
Cutter’s head turned. He studied the shadowed visage of the god. ‘Captain Paran? His—’
‘His sister. Look down upon the path, here, out the window, lad. In a short time Iskaral Pust will return. With guests. Among them, a child named Felisin—’
‘But you said—’
‘Before Paran’s sister . . . died, she adopted a waif. A sorely abused foundling. She sought, I think—we will never know for certain, of course—to achieve something . . . something she herself had no chance, no opportunity, to achieve. Thus, she named the waif after herself.’
‘And what is she to me, Cotillion?’
‘You are being obstinate, I think. The wrong question.’
‘Oh, then tell me what is the right question.’
‘What are you to her?’
Cutter grimaced.
‘The child approaches in the company of another woman, a very remarkable one, as you—and she—will come to see. And with a priest, sworn now to Treach. From him, you will learn . . . much of worth. Finally, a demon travels with these three humans. For the time being . . .’
‘Where are they going? Why stop here, as Iskaral’s guests?’
‘Why, to collect you, Cutter.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Symmetry, lad, is a power unto itself. It is the expression, if you will, of nature’s striving for balance. I charge you with protecting Felisin’s life. To accompany them on their long, and dangerous, journey.’
‘How epic of you.’
‘I think not,’ Cotillion snapped.
Silence, for a time, during which Cutter regretted his comment.
Finally, the Daru sighed. ‘I hear horses. And Pust . . . in one of his nauseating diatribes.’
Cotillion said nothing.
‘Very well,’ Cutter said. ‘This Felisin . . . abused, you said. Those ones are hard to get to. To befriend, I mean. Their scars stay fresh and fierce with pain—’
‘Her adopted mother did well, given her own scars. Be glad, lad, that she is the daughter, not the mother. And, in your worst moments, think of how Baudin felt.’
‘Baudin. The elder Felisin’s guardian?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right,’ Cutter said. ‘It will do.’
‘What will?’
‘This path. It will do.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘Cotillion. This notion of . . . balance. Something has occurred to me—’
Cotillion’s eyes silenced him, shocked him with their unveiling of sorrow . . . of remorse. The patron of assassins nodded. ‘From her . . . to you. Aye.’
‘Did she see that, do you think?’
‘All too clearly, I’m afraid.’
Cutter stared out the window. ‘I loved her, you know. I still do.’
‘So you do not wonder why she has left.’
He shook his head, unable to fight back the tears any more. ‘No, Cotillion,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t.’
The ancient coast road long behind him, Karsa Orlong guided Havok northward along the shore of the new inland sea. Rain clouds hung over the murky water to the east, but the wind was pushing them away.
He studied the sky for a moment, then reined in on a slight rise studded with boulders and slipped down from the horse’s back. Walking over to a large, flat-topped rock, the Teblor unslung his sword and set it point downward against a nearby boulder, then sat. He drew off his pack and rummaged in an outside pocket for some salted bhederin, dried fruit, and goat cheese.
Staring out over the water, he ate. When he was done, he loosened the pack’s straps and dragged out the broken remains of the T’lan Imass. He held it up so that Siballe’s withered face looked out upon the rippling waves.
‘Tell me,’ Karsa said, ‘what do you see?’
‘My past.’ A moment of silence, then, ‘All that I have lost . . .’
The Teblor released his grip and the partial corpse collapsed into a cloud of dust. Karsa found his waterskin and drank deep. Then he stared down at Siballe. ‘You once said that if you were thrown into the sea, your soul would be freed. That oblivion would come to you. Is this true?’
‘Yes.’
With one hand he lifted her from the ground, rose and walked to the sea’s edge.
‘Wait! Teblor, wait! I do not understand!’
Karsa’s expression soured. ‘When I began this journey, I was young. I believed in one thing. I believed in glory. I know now, Siballe, that glory is nothing. Nothing. This is what I now understand.’
‘What else do you now understand, Karsa Orlong?’
‘Not much. Just one other thing. The same cannot be said for mercy.’ He raised her higher, then swung her body outward.
It struck the water in the shallows. And dissolved into a muddy bloom, which the waves then swept away.
Karsa swung about. Faced his sword of stone. He then smiled. ‘Yes. I am Karsa Orlong of the Uryd, a Teblor. Witness, my brothers. One day I will be worthy to lead such as you. Witness.’
Sword once more slung on his back, Havok once more solid beneath him, the Toblakai rode from the shoreline. West, into the wastes.
Epilogue
And now here I sit, on my brow a circlet of fire, and this kingdom I rule is naught but the host of my life’s recollections, unruly subjects, so eager for insurrection, to usurp the aged man from his charred throne and raise up younger versions one by one.
The Crown of Years
Fisher kel Tath
BY ANY STANDARDS, SHE WAS A GRIM WOMAN. Onrack the Broken watched her stand in the centre of the chamber and cast a harsh, appraising eye upon the disposition of her young killers. The grimace that twisted her handsome features suggested that she found nothing awry. Her gaze fell at last upon the Tiste Edur, Trull Sengar, and the grimace shifted into a scowl. ‘Must we watch our backs as well, with you here?’ Seated on the hewn floor, his back to an equally rough wall, Trull Sengar shrugged. ‘I see no easy way of convincing you that I am worthy of your trust, Minala. Apart from weaving for you my lengthy and rather unpleasant story.’
‘Spare me,’ she growled, then strode from the room.
Trull Sengar glanced over at Onrack and grinned. ‘No-one wants to hear it. Well, I am not surprised. Nor am I even stung. It is a rather squalid tale—’
‘I will hear your story,’ Onrack replied.
Near the entrance, Ibra Gholan’s neck creaked as the T’lan Imass looked back over one shoulder to regard Onrack for a moment, before returning to his position guarding the approach.
Trull Sengar barked a laugh. ‘This is ideal for an unskilled weaver of tales. My audience comprises a score of children who do not understand my nativ
e tongue, and three expressionless and indifferent undead. By tale’s end, only I will be weeping . . . likely for all the wrong reasons.’
Monok Ochem, who was standing three paces back from Ibra Gholan, slowly pivoted until the bonecaster faced Onrack. ‘You have felt it, then, Broken One. And so you seek distraction.’
Onrack said nothing.
‘Felt what?’ Trull Sengar asked.
‘She is destroyed. The woman who gave Onrack her heart in the time before the Ritual. The woman to whom he avowed his own heart only to steal it back. In many ways, she was destroyed then, already begun on her long journey to oblivion. Do you deny that, Onrack?’
‘Bonecaster, I do not.’
‘Madness, of such ferocity as to defeat the Vow itself. Like a camp dog that awakens one day with fever in its brain. That snarls and kills in a frenzy. Of course, we had no choice but to track her down, corner her. And so shatter her, imprison her within eternal darkness. Or so we thought. Madness, then, to defy even us. But now, oblivion has claimed her soul at last. A violent, painful demise, but none the less . . .’ Monok Ochem paused, then cocked its head. ‘Trull Sengar, you have not begun your tale, yet already you weep.’
The Tiste Edur studied the bonecaster for a long moment, as the tears ran down his gaunt cheeks. ‘I weep, Monok Ochem, because he cannot.’
The bonecaster faced Onrack once more. ‘Broken One, there are many things you deserve . . . but this man is not among them.’ He then turned away.
Onrack spoke. ‘Monok Ochem, you have travelled far from the mortal you once were, so far as to forget a host of truths, both pleasant and unpleasant. The heart is neither given nor stolen. The heart surrenders.’
The bonecaster did not turn round. ‘That is a word without power to the T’lan Imass, Onrack the Broken.’
‘You are wrong, Monok Ochem. We simply changed the word to make it not only more palatable, but also to empower it. With such eminence that it devoured our souls.’
‘We did no such thing,’ the bonecaster replied.
‘Onrack’s right,’ Trull Sengar sighed. ‘You did. You called it the Ritual of Tellann.’
Neither Monok Ochem nor Ibra Gholan spoke.
The Tiste Edur snorted. ‘And you’ve the nerve to call Onrack broken.’
There was silence in the chamber then, for some time.
But Onrack’s gaze remained fixed on Trull Sengar. And he was, if he was anything, a creature capable of supreme patience. To grieve is a gift best shared. As a song is shared.
Deep in the caves, the drums beat. Glorious echo to the herds whose thundering hoofs celebrate what it is to be alive, to run as one, to roll in life’s rhythm. This is how, in the cadence of our voice, we serve nature’s greatest need.
Facing nature, we are the balance.
Ever the balance to chaos.
Eventually, his patience was rewarded.
As he knew it would be.
The End
Glossary
Ascendants
Anomander Rake: Son of Darkness
Apsalar: Lady of Thieves
Beru: Lord of Storms
Bridgeburners
Burn: The Sleeping Goddess
Cotillion: The Rope, Patron of Assassins, High House Shadow
Dessembrae: Lord of Tears
Draconus: an Elder God and forger of the sword Dragnipur
D’rek: The Worm of Autumn
Fener: the Bereft
Gedderone: Lady of Spring and Rebirth
Hood: King of High House Death
Jhess: Queen of Weaving
K’rul: an Elder God of the Warrens
Mael: an Elder God of the Seas
Mowri: Lady of Beggars, Slaves and Serfs
Nerruse: Lady of Calm Seas and Fair Winds
Oponn: Twin Jesters of Chance
Osserc, ‘Osseric’, ‘Osric’: Lord of the Sky
Poliel: Mistress of Pestilence and Disease
Queen of Dreams: Queen of High House Life
Shadowthrone: Ammanas, King of High House Shadow
Sister of Cold Nights: an Elder Goddess
Soliel: Lady of Health
The Azath: the Houses
The Crippled God: The Chained One, Lord of High House of Chains
The Deragoth: of the First Empire of Dessimbelackis The Seven Hounds of Darkness
The Whirlwind Goddess
Togg and Fanderay: The Wolves of Winter
Treach, ‘Trake’: The Tiger of Summer and Lord of War
Gods of the Teblor (The Seven Faces In Rock):
Urugal the Woven
Siballe the Unfound
Beroke Soft Voice
Kahlb the Silent Hunter
Thenik the Shattered
Halad the Giant
Imroth the Cruel
Elder Peoples
Tiste Andü: Children of Darkness
Tiste Edur: Children of Shadow
Tiste Liosan: Children of Light
T’lan Imass
Eres, ‘Eres’al’
Trell
Jaghut
Forkrul Assail
K’Chain Che’Malle
The Eleint
The Barghast
The Thelomen Toblakai
The Teblor
Kurald Galain: The Elder Warren of Darkness
Kurald Emurlahn: The Elder Warren of Shadow, the Shattered Warren
Kurald Thyrllan: The Elder Warren of Light
Omtose Phellack: The Elder Jaghut Warren of Ice
Tellann: The Elder Imass Warren of Fire
Starvald Demelain: The Eleint Warren
Thyr: The Path of Light
Steven Erikson, House of Chains
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