‘For now.’
‘That will have to do, I suppose-’
‘Mind you, only if you’re guarding mine, Quick.’
‘Of course. Loyalty to the old squad and all that.’
‘So what are damned pebbles for? As if I couldn’t guess.’
‘We’re heading into an ugly scrap, Hedge.’ He rounded on the sapper. ‘And listen, about those damned cussers-if you blow me into tiny pieces I will come back for you, Hedge. That’s a vow, sworn by every damned soul in me.’
‘Now that raises a question, don’t it? Just how long do all of those souls plan on hiding in there, Ben Adaephon Delat?’
The wizard eyed him, and, predictably, said nothing.
Trull Sengar stood at the very edge of the fire’s light, beyond the gathered Imass. The women’s song had sunk into a series of sounds that a mother might make to her babe, soft sounds of comfort, and Onrack had explained how this Eres’al song was in fact a kind of traverse, back into the roots of language, beginning with the bizarre yet clearly complex adult Eres language with its odd clicks and stops and all the gestures that provided punctuation, then working backward and growing ever more simplified even as it became more musical. The effect was eerie and strangely disturbing to the Tiste Edur.
Music and song among his people was a static thing, fixated within ritual. If the ancient tales were true, there had once been a plethora of instruments in use among the Tiste Edur, but most of diese were now unknown, beyond the names given them. Voice now stood in their stead and Trull began to sense that, perhaps, something had been lost.
The gestures among the women had transformed into dance, sinuous and swaying and now, suddenly, sexual.
A low voice beside him said, ‘Before the child, there is passion.’
Trull glanced over and was surprised to see one of the T’lan, the clan chief, Hostille Rator.
An array of calcified bones were knotted in the filthy long hair dangling from the warrior’s mottled, scarred pate. His brow ridge dominated the entire face, burying the eyes in darkness. Even clothed in the flesh of life, Hostille Rator seemed deathly.
‘Passion begets the child, Tiste Edur. Do you see?’
Trull nodded. ‘Yes. I think so.’
‘So it was, long ago, at the Ritual.’
Ah.
‘The child, alas,’ the clan chief continued, ‘grows up. And what was once passion is now…’
Nothing.
Hostille Rator resumed. ‘There was a Bonecaster here, among these clans. She saw, clearly, the illusion of this realm. And saw, too, that it was dying. She sought to halt the bleeding away, by sacrificing herself. But she is failing-her spirit and her will, they are failing.’
Trull frowned at Hostille Rator. ‘How did you come to know of this place?’
‘She gave voice to her pain, her anguish.’ The T’lan was silent a moment, then he added, ‘It was our intention to answer the call of the Gathering-but the need in her voice was undeniable. We could not turn aside, even when what we surrendered was-possibly-our final rest.’
‘So now you are here, Hostille Rator. Onrack believes you would usurp Ulshun Pral, but for Rud Elalle’s presence-the threat he poses you.’
A glitter from the darkness beneath those brow ridges. ‘You do not even whisper these things, Edur. Would you see weapons drawn this night, even after the gift of the First Song?’
‘No. Yet, perhaps, better now than later.’
Trull now saw that the two T’lan Bonecasters had moved up behind Hostille Rator. The singing from the women had ceased-had it been an abrupt end? Trull could not recall. In any case, it was clear that all those present were now listening to this conversation. He saw Onrack emerge from the crowd, saw his friend’s stone sword gripped in both hands.
Trull addressed Hostille Rator once more, his tone even and calm. ‘You three have stood witness to all that you once were-’
‘It will not survive,’ the clan chief cut in. ‘How can we embrace this illusion when, upon its fading, we must return to what we truly are?’
From the crowd Rud Elalle spoke, ‘No harm shall befall my people-not by your hand, Hostille Rator, nor that of your Bonecasters. Nor,’ he added, ‘that of those who are coming here. I intend to lead the clans away-to safety.’
‘There is no safety,’ Hostille Rator said. ‘This realm dies, and so too will all that is within it. And there can be no escape. Rud Elalle, without this realm, your clans do not even exist.’
Onrack said, ‘I am T’lan, like you. Feel the flesh that now clothes you. The muscle, the heat of blood. Feel the breath in your lungs, Hostille Rator. I have looked into your eyes-each of you three-and I see what no doubt resides in mine. The wonder. The remembering.’
‘We cannot permit it,’ said the Bonecaster named Til’aras Benok. ‘For when we leave this place, Onrack…’
Yes,’ Trull’s friend whispered. ‘It will be… too much. To bear.’
‘There was passion once,’ Hostille Rator said. ‘For us. It can never return. We are children no longer.’
‘None of you understand!’
Rud Elalle’s sudden shriek startled everyone, and Trull saw Ulshun Pral-on his face an expression of distress- reach out a hand to his adopted son, who angrily brushed it away as he stepped forward, the fire in his eyes as fierce as that in the hearth beyond. ‘Stone, earth, trees and grasses. Beasts. The sky and the stars! None of this is an illusion!’
‘A trapped memory-’
‘No, Bonecaster, you are wrong.’ He struggled to hold back his anger, and spun to face Onrack. ‘I see your heart, Onrack the Broken. I know, you will stand with me-in the time that comes. You will!’
‘Yes, Rud Elalle.’
‘Then you believe!’
Onrack was silent.
Hostille Rator’s laugh was a soft, bitter rasp. ‘It is this, Rud Elalle. Onrack of the Logros T’lan Imass chooses to fight at your side, chooses to fight for these Bentract, because he cannot abide the thought of returning to what he once was, and so he would rather die here. And death is what Onrack the Broken anticipates-indeed, what he now yearns for.’
Trull studied his friend, and saw on Onrack’s firelit face the veracity of Hostille Rator’s words.
The Tiste Edur did not hesitate. ‘Onrack will not stand alone,’ he said.
Til’aras Benok faced Trull. ‘You surrender your life, Edur, to defend an illusion?’
‘That, Bonecaster, is what we mortals delight in doing. You bind yourself to a clan, to a tribe, to a nation or an empire, but to give force to the illusion of a common bond, you must feed its opposite-that all those not of your clan, or tribe, or empire, do not share that bond. I have seen Onrack the Broken, a T’lan Imass. And now I have seen him, mortal once again. To the joy and the life in the eyes of my friend, I will fight all those who deem him their enemy. For the bond between us is one of friendship, and that, Ti’laras Benok, is not an illusion.’
Hostille Rator asked Onrack, ‘In your mercy, as you have now found it alive once more in your soul, will you now reject Trull Sengar of the Tiste Edur?’
And the warrior bowed his head and said, ‘I cannot.’
‘Then, Onrack the Broken, your soul shall never find peace.’
‘I know.’
Trull felt as if he had been punched in the chest. It was all very well to make his bold claims, in ferocious sincerity that could only come of true friendship. It was yet another thing to discover the price it demanded in the soul of the one he called friend. ‘Onrack,’ he whispered in sudden anguish.
But this moment would not await all that might have been said, all that needed to be said, for Hostille Rator had turned to face his Bonecasters, and whatever silent communication passed among these three was quick, decisive, for the clan chief swung round and walked towards Ulshun Pral. Whereupon he fell to one knee and bowed
