Xx
He is unseen, one in a crowd whom none call
Do not slip past that forgettable face
Crawl not inside to find the unbidden rill
As it flows in dark horror from place to place
He is a common thing, in no way singular
Who lets no one inside the uneven steps
Down those eyes that drown the solitary star
We boldly share in these human depths
Not your brother, not anyone’s saviour
He will loom only closer to search your clothes
Push aside the feeble hand that seeks to stir
Compassion’s glow (the damp, dying rose)
He has plucked his garden down to bone
And picked every last bit of warm flesh
With fear like claws and nervous teeth when alone
He wanders this wasteland of cinder and ash
I watch in terror as he ascends our blessed throne
To lay down his cloak of shame like a shroud
And beckons us the illusion of a warm home
A sanctuary beneath his notice, one in a crowd
He finds his power in our indifference
Shredding the common to dispense with congress
No conjoined will to set against him in defiance
And one by one by one, he kills us
– A King Takes the Throne (carved on the Poet’s Wall, Royal Dungeons, Unta)
With a twist and a snarl, Shan turned on Lock. The huge white-coated beast did not flinch or scurry, hut simply loped away, tongue lolling as if in laughter. A short distance off, Pallid watched. Fangs still bared, Shan slipped off into the high grasses once more.
Baran, Blind, Rood and Gear had not slowed during this exchange-it had happened many times before, after all-and they continued on, in a vaguely crescent formation, Rood and Gear on the flanks. Antelope observed them from a rise off to the southwest-the barest tilt of a head from any of the Hounds and they would be off, fast as their bounding legs could take them, their hearts a frenzied drum-roll of bleak terror.
But the Hounds of Shadow were not hunting this day. Not antelope, not bhed-erin, nor mule deer nor ground sloth. A host of animals that lived either in states of blessed anonymity or states of fear had no need to lurch from the former into the latter-at least not because of the monstrous Hounds. As for the wolves of the plains, the lumbering snub-nosed bears and the tawny cats of the high grasses, there were none within ten leagues-the faintest wisp of scent had sent them fleeing one and all.
Great Ravens sailed high above the Hounds, minute specks in the vaulted blue.
Shan was displeased with the two new companions, these blots of dirty white with the lifeless eyes. Lock in particular irritated her, as it seemed this one wanted to travel as she did, close by her side, sliding unseen, ghostly and silent. Most annoying of all, Lock was Shan’s able match in such skill.
But she had no interest in surrendering her solitude. Ambush and murder were best served alone, as far as she was concerned. Lock complicated things, and Shan despised complications.
Somewhere, far behind them, creatures pursued. In the profoundly long history of the Hounds of Shadow, they had been hunted many times. More often than not, the hunters came to regret the decision, whether a momentary impulse or an instinctive need; whether at the behest of some master or by the hatred in their souls, their desire usually proved fatal.
Occasionally, however, being hunted was such exquisite pleasure that the Hounds never turned the game. Let the chase go on, and on. Dance from the path of that rage, all that blind need.
All things will cast a shadow. If light blazes infernal, a shadow can grow solid, outlines sharp, motion rippling within. Shape is a reflection, but not all reflec-tions are true. Some shadows lie. Deception born of imagination and imagination born of fear, or perhaps it is the other way round and fear ignites imagination-regardless, shadows will thrive.
In the dark conjurings of a sentient mind, all that is imagined can be made real. The beast, and the shadow it casts. The beast’s shadow, and the light from which it is born. Each torn away, made distinct, made into things of nightmare.
Philosophers and fools might claim that light is without shape, that it finds its existence in painting the shape of other things, as wayward as the opening of aneye. That, in the absence of such things, it slants unseen, indeed, invisible. With-out other things to strike upon, it does not cavort, does not bounce, does not paint and reflect. Rather, it flows eternal. If this is so, then light is unique in the uni-verse.
But the universe holds to one law above all others: nothing is unique.
Fools and philosophers have not, alas, seen the light.
Conjure the shape of beasts, of Hounds and monsters, fiends and nightmares. Of light, of dark, and of shadow. A handful of clay, a gifted breath of life, and forces will seethe in the conflicts inscribed upon their souls.
The Deragoth are the dark, and in their savage solidity would claim ownership of the shadows they cast. Lock and Pallid, however, are the light that gave the Deragoth shape, without whom neither the Deragoth nor the Hounds of Shadow would exist. If the hunters and the hunted so will, one day the beasts shall come together, baleful in mutual regard, perhaps even eager to annihilate one another, and then, in a single instant of dumbfounded astonishment, vanish one and all. Ha hah.
Not all instincts guide one to behaviours of survival. Life is mired in stupidity, after all, and the smarter the life, the stupider it can be. The Hounds of Shadow were neither brilliant nor brainless. They were, in fact, rather clever.
Salutations to this triparate universe, so mutually insistent. And why not? It doesn’t even exist, except in the caged mind that so needs simplification.
A mind, mused Cotillion, like mine.
He glanced across at his companion. But not his. When you stand at the centre of the game, no questions arise. How can that be? What is it like, to he the storm’s eye? What happens, dear Shadowthrone, when you blink?
‘This,’ muttered Shadowthrone, ‘was unexpected.’
‘A damned complication,’ Cotillion agreed. ‘We need the Hounds there, just to ensure nothing goes awry.’
Shadowthrone snorted. ‘It always goes awry. Gods below, I’ve had to use that mad High Priest again.’
‘Iskaral Pust.’ After a moment, Cotillion realized he was smiling. He quickly cast away that expression, since if Shadowthrone saw it he might well go apoplectic. ‘Lovely as she is, Sordiko Qualm is not insurance enough, not for this, anyway.’
‘Nor is Pust!’ snapped Shadowthrone.
They watched the Hounds drawing closer, sensed the beasts’ collective curiosity at this unplanned intercession. Their task now, after all, was simple. Straightforward, even.
Cotillion glanced back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing on the gaunt figure walking towards them. Well, not precisely-the stranger was on his way to a damned reunion, and what would come of that?
‘Too many histories, too many half-truths and outright lies.’ Shadowthrone snarled every word of that statement. ‘Pups of the Tiste Edur-any one will do, it seems, if they know the old commands. But now…’
‘According to my, er, research, its name is Tulas Shorn, and no, I do not knowthe gender and what seems to be left of it doesn’t look as if it will provide enough detail to decide either way.’
