So sing, brothers. Sing, sisters. And in the torch’s light, float’ ing free from the walls of our minds-of the caves within us-see all the faces of sorrow. See those who have died and left us. And sing your grief until the very beasts flee.
Onrack the Broken felt the tears on his cheeks, and cursed himself for a sentimental fool.
Behind him, Trull Sengar stood in silence. In humouring a foolish Imass, he was without impatience. Onrack knew he would simply wait, and wait. Until such time as Onrack might stir from his grim memories, recalling once more the gifts of the present. He would-
‘There was great skill in the painting of these beasts.’
The Imass, still facing die stone wall, still with his back to the Tiste Edur, found himself smiling. So, even here and now, I indulge silly fantasies that are, even if comforting, without much meaning. ‘Yes, Trull Sengar. True talent. Such skill is passed down in the blood, and with each generation there is the potential for… burgeoning. Into such as we see here.’
‘Is the artist among the clans here? Of were these painted long ago, by someone else?’
‘The artist,’ Onrack said, ‘is Ulshun Pral.’
‘And is it this talent that has earned him the right to rule?’
No. Never that. ‘This talent,’ the Imass replied, ‘is his weakness.’
‘Better than you, Onrack?’
He turned about, his smile now wry. ‘I see some flaws. I see hints of impatience. Of emotion free and savage as the beasts he paints. I see also, perhaps, signs of a talent he had lost and has not yet rediscovered.’
‘How does one lose talent like that?’
‘By dying, only to return.’
‘Onrack,’ and there was a new tone to Trull’s voice, a 1 gravity that unnerved Onrack, ‘I have spoken with these Imass here. Many of them. With Ulshun himself. And I do not think they ever died. I do not think they were once T’lan, only to have forgotten in the countless generations of existence here.’
‘Yes, they say they are among those who did not join the Ritual. But this cannot be true, Trull Sengar. They must be ghosts, willed into flesh, held here by the timelessness of the Gate at the end of this cave. My friend, they do not know themselves.’ And then he paused. Can this be true?
‘Ulshun Pral says he remembers his mother. He says she is still alive. Although not here right now.’
‘Ulshun Pral is a hundred thousand years old, Trull Sengar. Or more. What he remembers is false, a delusion.’
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So sing, brothers. Sing, sisters. And in the torch’s light, float’ ing free from the walls of our minds-of the caves within us-see all the faces of sorrow. See those who have died and left us. And sing your grief until the very beasts flee.
Onrack the Broken felt the tears on his cheeks, and cursed himself for a sentimental fool.
Behind him, Trull Sengar stood in silence. In humouring a foolish Imass, he was without impatience. Onrack knew he would simply wait, and wait. Until such time as Onrack might stir from his grim memories, recalling once more the gifts of the present. He would-
‘There was great skill in the painting of these beasts.’
The Imass, still facing die stone wall, still with his back to the Tiste Edur, found himself smiling. So, even here and now, I indulge silly fantasies that are, even if comforting, without much meaning. ‘Yes, Trull Sengar. True talent. Such skill is passed down in the blood, and with each generation there is the potential for… burgeoning. Into such as we see here.’
‘Is the artist among the clans here? Of were these painted long ago, by someone else?’
‘The artist,’ Onrack said, ‘is Ulshun Pral.’
‘And is it this talent that has earned him the right to rule?’
No. Never that. ‘This talent,’ the Imass replied, ‘is his weakness.’
‘Better than you, Onrack?’
He turned about, his smile now wry. ‘I see some flaws. I see hints of impatience. Of emotion free and savage as the beasts he paints. I see also, perhaps, signs of a talent he had lost and has not yet rediscovered.’
‘How does one lose talent like that?’
‘By dying, only to return.’
‘Onrack,’ and there was a new tone to Trull’s voice, a 1 gravity that unnerved Onrack, ‘I have spoken with these Imass here. Many of them. With Ulshun himself. And I do not think they ever died. I do not think they were once T’lan, only to have forgotten in the countless generations of existence here.’
‘Yes, they say they are among those who did not join the Ritual. But this cannot be true, Trull Sengar. They must be ghosts, willed into flesh, held here by the timelessness of the Gate at the end of this cave. My friend, they do not know themselves.’ And then he paused. Can this be true?
‘Ulshun Pral says he remembers his mother. He says she is still alive. Although not here right now.’
‘Ulshun Pral is a hundred thousand years old, Trull Sengar. Or more. What he remembers is false, a delusion.’
‘I do not believe that, not any more. I think the mystery here is deeper than any of us realize.’
‘Let us go on,’ Onrack said. ‘I would see this Gate.’
They left the chamber of the beasts.
Trull was filled with unease. Something had been awakened in his friend-by the paintings-and its taste was bitter. He had seen, in the lines of Onrack’s back, his shoulders, a kind of slow collapse. The return of some ancient burden. And, seeing this, Trull had forced himself to speak, to break the silence before Onrack could destroy himself.
Yes. The paintings. The crime. Will you not smile again, Onrack? Not the smile you gave me when you turned to face me just now-too broken, too filled with sorrow-but the smile I have grown to treasure since coming to this realm.
‘Onrack.’
‘Yes?’
‘Do we still know what we are waiting for? Yes, threats approach. Will they come through the Gate? Or from across the hills beyond the camp? Do we know in truth if these Imass are indeed threatened?’
‘Prepare yourself, Trull Sengar. Danger draws close… on all sides.’
‘Perhaps then we should return to Ulshun Pral.’
‘Rud Elalle is with them. There is time yet… to see this Gate.’
Moments later, they came to the edge of the vast, seemingly limitless cavern, and both halted.
Not one Gate. Many gates.
And all were seething with silent, wild fire.
‘Onrack,’ Trull said, unslinging his spear. ‘Best return to Rud Elalle and let him know-this is not what he described.’
Onrack pointed towards a central heap of stones. ‘She has failed. This realm, Trull Sengar, is dying. And when it dies…’
Neither spoke for a moment.
Then Onrack said, ‘I will return quickly, my friend, so that you do not stand alone-against what may come through.’
‘I look forward to your company,’ Trull replied. ‘So… hurry.’
Forty-odd paces beyond the camp rose a modest hill, stretched out as if it had once been an-atoll, assuming the plains had once been under water and that, Hedge told himself as he kicked his way through a ribbon of sand studded with broken shells, was a fair assumption. Reaching the elongated summit, he set down his oversized crossbow near an outcrop of sun-bleached limestone, then walked over to where Quick Ben sat cross-legged, facing the hills two thousand paces to the south.