‘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.’
