Jureg Thaw

Lord Vanut Degalla

Syl Lebanas

THE CITADEL AND PRIESTHOOD

Mother Dark

Emral Lanear

Endest Silann

Cedorpul Ahras

Rise Herat

Orfantal

Ribs

HUST

The Forge Works

Hust Henarald

The Hust Legion

Toras Redone

Galar Baras

Seltin Ryggandas

THE SHAKE

The Yannis Monastery

Sheccanto Derran

Warlock Resh

Caplo Dreem

The Yedan Monastery

Higher Grace Skelenal

Witch Ruvera

URUSANDER’S LEGION

Scara Bandaris

Ilgast Rend

Esthala

Kagamandra Tulas (Shorn)

Tathe Lorat

Sheltatha Lore

Infayen Menand

Sharenas Ankhadu

Hallyd Bahann

Sagander

THE BORDERSWORDS

Lahanis

THE DENIERS

Wreneck

Narad

Glyph

THE PRISONERS

Wareth

Listar

Rebble

Rance

THE WARDENS

Calat Hustain

Faror Hend

Spinnock Durav

Bursa

Finarra Stone

NERET SORR (TOWN OF)

Vatha Urusander

Hunn Raal

Serap

Sevegg

Renarr

Syntara

The Tiste: Holds, Greater and Lesser Houses, Priesthood and Court

BOOK ONE

The Seduction of Tragedy

So THEY LUST FOR BLOOD. POETS KNOW ITS TASTE, BUT SOME KNOW IT better than others. A few are known to choke on it. Stand at a distance, then, and make violence into a dance. Glory in its sounds, in the mayhem and those stern expressions that seem better suited to an unpleasant task completed with reluctant forbearance. There is for the audience that glee of admiration in the well-swung sword, the perfect thrust, the cold, professional face with the flat eyes. Revel, then, in the strut, and see something enticing in the grim camaraderie of failed men and women—

Failed? You say many do not see that? Oh dear.

Shall I then offer up the reek of shit and piss? The cries for loved ones far away? The hopeless longing for a mother’s embrace to ease the pain and the terror, to bless the gentle slowing of the hammering heart? Shall I describe the true faces of violence? The twist of fear, the heaviness of dread, the panic that rushes in a surge of blood, a surge that drains the visage and bulges the eyes? But what value any of this, when to feel is to acknowledge the frailty of one’s own soul, and such frailty must ever be denied in the public swagger that so many find essential, lest they lose grip.

Indeed, I would think armour itself whispers of weakness. Tug free the helm’s strap, let your scalp prickle in the cool air. Strip down until you stand naked, and let’s see again that swagger.

There are poets who glory in their recounts of battle, of all those struggles so deftly ritualized. And they tend lovingly their garden of words, heaping high the harvest of glory, duty, courage and honour. But each of those luscious, stirring words is plucked from the same vine, and alas, it is a poisonous one. Name it necessity, and look well upon its spun strands, its fibrous belligerence.