‘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

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.’

‘Spare me,’ she growled, then strode from the room.

Trull Sengar glanced over at Onrack and grinned. ‘No-one wants to hear it. Well, I am not surprised. Nor am I even stung. It is a rather squalid tale—’

‘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.’