House of Chains

‘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 ca

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

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 gri

‘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 native 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 ca

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 Tella

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.