‘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 catastrophic 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?’