As with so many tracts within Tellann, the scars of Omtose Phellack remained both visible and palpable to Onrack’s senses. Rivers of ice had gouged this landscape, tracing the history of advance and, finally, retreat, leaving behind fluvial spans of silts, rocks and boulders in screes, fans and slides, and broad valleys with basins worn down to smooth-humped bedrock. Eventually, permafrost gave way to sodden peat and marshland, wherein stunted black spruce rose in knotted stands on islands formed by the rotted remains of ancestral trees. Pools of black water surrounded these islands, layered with mists and bubbling with the gases of decay.
Insects swarmed the air, finding nothing to their liking among the T’lan Imass and the lone mortal, though they circled in thick, buzzing clouds none the less. Before long, the marshes gave way to upthrust domes of bedrock, the low ground between them steep-sided and tangled with brush and dead pines. The domes then merged, creating a winding bridge of high ground along which the four travelled with greater ease than before.
It began to rain, a steady drizzle that blackened the basaltic bedrock and made it slick.
Onrack could hear Trull Sengar’s harsh breathing and sensed his companion’s weariness. But no entreaties to rest came from the Tiste Edur, even as he increasingly used his spear as a staff as they trudged onward.
Forest soon replaced the exposed bedrock, slowly shifting from coniferous to deciduous, the hills giving way to flatter ground. The trees then thinned, and suddenly, beyond a line of tangled deadfall, plains stretched before them, and the rain was gone. Onrack raised a hand. ‘We shall halt here.’
Ibra Gholan, ten paces ahead, stopped and swung round. ‘Why?’
‘Food and rest, Ibra Gholan. You may have forgotten that these number among the needs of mortals.’
‘I have not forgotten, Onrack the Broken.’
Trull Sengar settled onto the grasses, a wry smile on his lips as he said, ‘It’s called indifference, Onrack. I am, after all, the least valuable member of this war party.’
‘The renegades will not pause in their march,’ Ibra Gholan said. ‘Nor should we.’
‘Then journey ahead,’ Onrack suggested.
‘No,’ Monok Ochem commanded. ‘We walk together. Ibra Gholan, a short period of rest will not prove a great inconvenience. Indeed, I would the Tiste Edur speak to us.’
‘About what, Bonecaster?’
‘Your people, Trull Sengar. What has made them kneel before the Chained One?’
‘No easy answer to that question, Monok Ochem.’
Ibra Gholan strode back to the others. ‘I shall hunt game,’ the warrior said, then vanished in a swirl of dust.
The Tiste Edur studied the fluted spearhead of his new weapon for a moment, then, setting the spear down, he sighed. ‘It is a long tale, alas. And indeed, I am no longer the best choice to weave it in a manner you might find useful—’
‘Why?’
‘Because, Monok Ochem, I am Shorn. I no longer exist. To my brothers, and my people, I never existed.’
‘Such assertions are meaningless in the face of truth,’ Onrack said. ‘You are here before us. You exist. As do your memories.’
‘There have been Imass who have suffered exile,’ Monok Ochem rasped. ‘Yet still we speak of them. We must speak of them, to give warning to others. What value a tale if it is not instructive?’
‘A very enlightened view, Bonecaster. But mine are not an enlightened people. We care nothing for instruction. Nor, indeed, for truth. Our tales exist to give grandeur to the mundane. Or to give moments of great drama and significance an air of inevitability. Perhaps one might call that “instruction” but that is not their purpose. Every defeat justifies future victory. Every victory is propitious. The Tiste Edur make no misstep, for our dance is one of destiny.’
‘And you are no longer in that dance.’
‘Precisely, Onrack. Indeed, I never was.’
‘Your exile forces you to lie even to yourself, then,’ Onrack observed.
‘In a manner of speaking, that is true. I am therefore forced to reshape the tale, and that is a difficult thing. There was much of that time that I did not understand at first—certainly not when it occurred. Much of my knowledge did not come to me until much later—’
‘Following your Shorning.’
Trull Sengar’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed on Onrack, then he nodded. ‘Yes.’
As knowledge flowered before my mind’s eye in the wake of the Ritual of Tellann’s shattering. Very well, this I understand. ‘Prepare for the telling of your tale, Trull Sengar. If instruction can be found within it, recognition is the responsibility of those to whom the tale is told. You are absolved of the necessity.’
Monok Ochem grunted, then said, ‘These words are spurious. Every story instructs. The teller ignores this truth at peril. Excise yourself from the history you would convey if you must, Trull Sengar. The only lesson therein is one of humility.’
Trull Sengar grinned up at the bonecaster. ‘Fear not, I was never pivotal among the players. As for excision, well, that has already occurred, and so I would tell the tale of the Tiste Edur who dwelt north of Lether as would they themselves tell it. With one exception—which has, I admit, proved most problematic in my mind—and that is, there will be no aggrandizement in my telling. No revelling in glory, no claims of destiny or inevitability. I shall endeavour, then, to be other than the Tiste Edur I appear to be, to tear away my cultural identity and so cleanse the tale—’
‘Flesh does not lie,’ Monok Ochem said. ‘Thus, we are not deceived.’
‘Flesh may not lie, but the spirit can, Bonecaster. Instruct yourself in blindness and indifference—I in turn intend to attempt the same.’
‘When will you begin your tale?’
‘At the First Throne, Monok Ochem. Whilst we await the coming of the renegades…and their Tiste Edur allies.’
Ibra Gholan reappeared with a broken-necked hare, which he skinned in a single gesture, then flung the blood-smeared body to the ground beside Trull Sengar. ‘Eat,’ the warrior instructed, tossing the skin aside.
Onrack moved off while the Tiste Edur made preparations for a fire. He was, he reflected, disturbed by Trull Sengar’s words. The Shorning had made much of excising the physical traits that would identify Trull Sengar as Tiste Edur. The bald pate, the scarred brow. But these physical alterations were as nothing, it appeared, when compared to those forced upon the man’s spirit. Onrack realized that he had grown comfortable in Trull Sengar’s company, lulled, perhaps, by the Edur’s steady manner, his ease with hardship and extremity. Such comfort was deceiving, it now seemed. Trull Sengar’s calm was born of scars, of healing that left one insensate. His heart was incomplete. He is as a T’lan Imass, yet clothed in mortal flesh. We ask that he resurrect his memories of life, then wonder at his struggle to satisfy our demands. The failure is ours, not his.
We speak of those we have exiled, yet not to warn—as Monok Ochem claims. No, nothing so noble. We speak of them in reaffirmation of our judgement. But it is our intransigence that finds itself fighting the fiercest war—with time itself, with the changing world around us.
‘I will preface my tale,’ Trull Sengar was saying as he roasted the skinned hare, ‘with an admittedly cautionary observation.’
‘Tell me this observation,’ Monok Ochem said.
‘I shall, Bonecaster. It concerns nature…and the exigency of maintaining a balance.’
Had he possessed a soul, Onrack would have felt it grow cold as ice. As it was, the warrior slowly turned in the wake of Trull Sengar’s words.
‘Pressures and forces are ever in opposition,’ the Edur was saying as he rotated the spitted hare over the flames. ‘And the striving is ever towards a balance. This is beyond the gods, of course—it is the current of existence—but no, beyond even that, for existence itself is opposed by oblivion. It is a struggle that encompasses all, that defines every island in the Abyss. Or so I now believe. Life is answered by death. Dark by light. Overwhelming success by cata
strophic failure. Horrific curse by breathtaking blessing. It seems the inclination of all people to lose sight of that truth, particularly when blinded by triumph upon triumph. See before me, if you will, this small fire. A modest victory…but if I feed it, my own eager delight is answered, until this entire plain is aflame, then the forest, then the world itself. Thus, an assertion of wisdom here…in the quenching of these flames once this meat is cooked. After all, igniting this entire world will also kill everything in it, if not in flames then in subsequent starvation. Do you see my point, Monok Ochem?’
‘I do not, Trull Sengar. This prefaces nothing.’
Onrack spoke. ‘You are wrong, Monok Ochem. It prefaces…everything.’
Trull Sengar glanced over, and answered with a smile.
Of sadness overwhelming. Of utter…despair.
And the undead warrior was shaken.
A succession of ridges ribboned the landscape, seeming to slowly melt as sand drifted down from the sky.
‘Soon,’ Pearl murmured, ‘those beach ridges will vanish once more beneath dunes.’
Lostara shrugged. ‘We’re wasting time,’ she pronounced, then set off towards the first ridge. The air was thick with settling dust and sand, stinging the eyes and parching the throat. Yet the haze served to draw the horizons closer, to make their discovery increasingly unlikely. The sudden demise of the Whirlwind Wall suggested that the Adjunct and her army had reached Raraku, were even now marching upon the oasis. She suspected that there would be few, if any, scouts patrolling the northeast approaches.
Pearl had announced that it was safe now to travel during the day. The goddess had drawn inward, concentrating her power for, perhaps, one final, explosive release. For the clash with the Adjunct. A singularity of purpose locked in rage, a flaw that could be exploited.
She allowed herself a private smile at that. Flaws. No shortage of those hereabouts, is there? Their moment of wild passion had passed, as far as she was concerned. The loosening of long pent-up energies—now that it was done, they could concentrate on other things. More important things. It seemed, however, that Pearl saw it differently. He’d even tried to take her hand this morning, a gesture that she decisively rebuffed despite its pathos. The deadly assassin was on the verge of transforming into a squirming pup—disgust threatened to overwhelm her, so she shifted her thoughts onto another track.
They were running short on time, not to mention food and water. Raraku was a hostile land, resentful of whatever life dared exploit it. Not holy at all, but cursed. Devourer of dreams, destroyer of ambitions. And why not? It’s a damned desert.
Clambering over the cobbles and stones, they reached the first ridge.
‘We’re close,’ Pearl said, squinting ahead. ‘Beyond that higher terrace, we should come within sight of the oasis.’
‘And then what?’ she asked, brushing dust from her tattered clothes.
‘Well, it would be remiss of me not to take advantage of our position—I should be able to infiltrate the camp and stir up some trouble. Besides,’ he added, ‘one of the trails I am on leads into the heart of that rebel army.’
The Talons. The master of that revived cult. ‘Are you so certain of that?’
He nodded, then half shrugged. ‘Reasonably. I have come to believe that the rebellion was compromised long ago, perhaps from the very start. That the aim of winning independence for Seven Cities was not quite as central to some as it should have been, and indeed, that those hidden motives are about to be unveiled.’
‘And it is inconceivable to you that such unveilings should occur without your hand in their midst.’
He glanced at her. ‘My dear, you forget, I am an agent of the Malazan Empire. I have certain responsibilities…’
Her eyes lit on an object lying among the cobbles—a momentary recognition, then her gaze quickly shifted away. She studied the murky sky. ‘Has it not occurred to you that your arrival might well jeopardize missions already under way in the rebel camp? The Empress does not know you’re here. In fact, even the Adjunct likely believes we are far away from this place.’
‘I am not uncomfortable with a supporting role—’
Lostara snorted.
‘Well,’ he amended, ‘such a role is not entirely reprehensible. I can live with it.’
Liar. She settled down on one knee to adjust the greaves lashed to her leather-clad shins. ‘We should be able to make that terrace before the sun sets.’
‘Agreed.’
She straightened.
They made their way down the rock-studded slope. The ground was littered with the tiny, shrivelled bodies of countless desert creatures that had been swept up into the Whirlwind, dying within that interminable storm yet remaining suspended within it until, with the wind’s sudden death, falling to earth once more. They had rained down for a full day, husks clattering and crunching on all sides, pattering on her helm and skidding from her shoulders. Rhizan, capemoths and other minuscule creatures, for the most part, although occasionally something larger had thumped to the ground. Lostara was thankful that the downpour had ended.
‘The Whirlwind has not been friendly to Raraku,’ Pearl commented, kicking aside the corpse of an infant bhok’aral.
‘Assuming the desert cares one way or another, which it doesn’t, I doubt it will make much difference in the long run. A land’s lifetime is far vaster than anything with which we are familiar, vaster, by far, than the spans of these hapless creatures. Besides, Raraku is already mostly dead.’
‘Appearances deceive. There are deep spirits in this Holy Desert, lass. Buried in the rock—’
‘And the life upon that rock, like the sands,’ Lostara asserted, ‘means nothing to those spirits. You are a fool to think otherwise, Pearl.’
‘I am a fool to think many things,’ he muttered.
‘Do not expect me to object to that observation.’
‘It never crossed my mind that you might, Lostara Yil. In any case, I would none the less advise that you cultivate a healthy respect for the mysteries of Raraku. It is far too easy to be blindsided in this seemingly empty and lifeless desert.’
‘As we’ve already discovered.’
He frowned, then sighed. ‘I regret that you view…things that way, and can only conclude that you derive a peculiar satisfaction from discord, and when it does not exist—or, rather, has no reason to exist—you seek to invent it.’
‘You think too much, Pearl. It’s your most irritating flaw, and, let us be honest, given the severity and sheer volume of your flaws, that is saying something. Since this seems to be a time for advice, I suggest you stop thinking entirely.’
‘And how might I achieve that? Follow your lead, perhaps?’
‘I think neither too much nor too little. I am perfectly balanced—this is what you find so attractive. As a capemoth is drawn to fire.’
‘So I am in danger of being burned up?’
‘To a blackened, shrivelled crust.’
‘So, you’re pushing me away for my own good. A gesture of compassion, then.’
‘Fires neither push nor pull. They simply exist, compassionless, indifferent to the suicidal urges of flitting bugs. That is another one of your flaws, Pearl. Attributing emotion where none exists.’
‘I could have sworn there was emotion, two nights past—’
‘Oh, fire burns eagerly when there’s fuel—’
‘And in the morning there’s naught but cold ashes.’
‘Now you are beginning to understand. Of course, you will see that as encouragement, and so endeavour to take your understanding further. But that would be a waste of time, so I suggest you abandon the effort. Be content with the glimmer, Pearl.’
‘I see…murkily. Very well, I will accept your list of advisements.’
‘You will? Gullibility is a most unattractive flaw, Pearl.’
She thought he would scream, was impressed by his sudden clamping of control, releasing his breath like steam beneath a cauldron’s lid, until the pres
sure died away.
They approached the ascent to the last ridge, Lostara at her most contented thus far this day, Pearl likely to be feeling otherwise.
As they reached the crest the Claw spoke again. ‘What was that you picked up on the last ridge, lass?’
Saw that, did you? ‘A shiny rock. Caught my eye. I’ve since discarded it.’
‘Oh? So it no longer hides in that pouch on your belt?’
Snarling, she plucked the leather bag from her belt and flung it to the ground, then drew out her chain-backed gauntlets. ‘See for yourself, then.’
He gave her a startled glance, then bent down to collect the pouch.
As he straightened, Lostara stepped forward.
Her gauntlets cracked hard against Pearl’s temple.
Groaning, he collapsed unconscious.
‘Idiot,’ she muttered, retrieving the pouch.
She donned the gauntlets, then, with a grunt, lifted the man and settled him over one shoulder.
Less than two thousand paces ahead lay the oasis, the air above it thick with dust and the smoke of countless fires. Herds of goats were visible along the fringes, in the shade of trees. The remnants of a surrounding wall curved roughly away in both directions.
Carrying Pearl, Lostara made her way down the slope.
She was nearing the base when she heard horses off to her right. Crouching down and thumping Pearl to the ground beside her, she watched as a dozen desert warriors rode into view, coming from the northwest. Their animals looked half starved, heads hanging low, and she saw, among them, two prisoners.
Despite the dust covering them, and the gloom of approaching dusk, Lostara recognized the remnants of uniforms on the two prisoners. Malazans. Ashok Regiment. Thought they’d been wiped out.
The warriors rode without outriders, and did not pause in their steady canter until they reached the oasis, whereupon they vanished beneath the leather-leaved branches of the trees.
Lostara looked around and decided that her present surroundings were ideal for staying put for the night. A shallow basin in the lee of the slope. By lying flat they would not be visible from anywhere but the ridge itself, and even that was unlikely with night fast falling. She checked on Pearl, frowning at the purple-ringed bump on his temple. But his breathing was steady, the beat of his heart unhurried and even. She laid out his cloak and rolled him onto it, then bound and gagged him.
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