A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

Tiste Edur I appear to
be, to tear away my cultural identity and so cleanse the tale—'
    'Flesh does not lie,' Monok Ochem said. 'Thus, we are not deceived.'
    'Flesh may not lie, but the spirit can, Bonecaster. Instruct yourself in blindness and indifference – I in turn intend to attempt the same.'
    'When will you begin your tale?'
    'At the First Throne, Monok Ochem. Whilst we await the coming of the renegades ... and their Tiste Edur allies.'
    Ibra Gholan reappeared with a broken-necked hare, which he skinned in a single gesture, then flung the blood-smeared body to the ground beside Trull Sengar. 'Eat,' the warrior instructed, tossing the skin aside.
    Onrack moved off while the Tiste Edur made preparations for a fire. He was, he reflected, disturbed by Trull Sengar's words. The Shorning had made much of excising the physical traits that would identify Trull Sengar as Tiste Edur. The bald pate, the scarred brow. But these physical alterations were as nothing, it appeared, when compared to those forced upon the man's spirit. Onrack realized that he had grown comfortable in Trull Sengar's company, lulled, perhaps, by the Edur's steady manner, his ease with hardship and extremity. Such comfort was deceiving, it now seemed. Trull Sengar's calm was born of scars, of healing that left one insensate. His heart was incomplete. He is as a T'lan Imass, yet clothed in mortal flesh. We ask that he resurrect his memories of life, then wonder at his struggle to satisfy our demands. The failure is ours, not his.
    We speak of those we have exiled, yet not to warn – as Monok Ochem claims. No, nothing so noble. We speak of them in reaffirmation of our judgement. But it is our intransigence that finds itself fighting the fiercest war — with time itself, with the changing world around us.
    'I will preface my tale,' Trull Sengar was saying as he roasted the skinned hare, 'with an admittedly cautionary observation.'
    'Tell me this observation,' Monok Ochem said.
    'I shall, Bonecaster. It concerns nature . . . and the exigency of maintaining a balance.'
    Had he possessed a soul, Onrack would have felt it grow cold as ice. As it was, the warrior slowly turned in the wake of Trull Sengar's words.
    'Pressures and forces are ever in opposition,' the Edur was saying as he rotated the spitted hare over the flames. 'And the striving is ever towards a balance. This is beyond the gods, of course – it is the current of existence – but no, beyond even that, for existence itself is opposed by oblivion. It is a struggle that encompasses all, that defines every island in the Abyss. Or so I now believe. Life is answered by death. Dark by light. Overwhelming success by catastrophic failure. Horrific curse by breathtaking blessing. It seems the inclination of all people to lose sight of that truth, particularly when blinded by triumph upon triumph. See before me, if you will, this small fire. A modest victory ... but if I feed it, my own eager delight is answered, until this entire plain is aflame, then the forest, then the world itself. Thus, an assertion of wisdom here ... in the quenching of these flames once this meat is cooked. After all, igniting this entire world will also kill everything in it, if not in flames then in subsequent starvation. Do you see my point, Monok Ochem?'
    'I do not, Trull Sengar. This prefaces nothing.'
    Onrack spoke. 'You are wrong, Monok Ochem. It prefaces ... everything.'
    Trull Sengar glanced over, and answered with a smile.
    Of sadness overwhelming. Of utter ... despair.
    And the undead warrior was shaken.
     
    A succession of ridges ribboned the landscape, seeming to slowly melt as sand drifted down from the sky.
    'Soon,' Pearl murmured, 'those beach ridges will vanish once more beneath dunes.'
    Lostara shrugged. 'We're wasting time,' she pronounced,
then set off towards the first ridge. The air was thick with settling dust and sand, stinging the eyes and parching the throat. Yet the haze served to draw the horizons closer, to make their discovery increasingly unlikely. The sudden demise of the Whirlwind Wall suggested that the Adjunct and her army had reached Raraku, were even now marching upon the oasis. She suspected that there would be few, if any, scouts patrolling the northeast approaches.
    Pearl had announced that it was safe now to travel during the day. The goddess had drawn inward, concentrating her power for, perhaps, one final, explosive release. For the clash with the Adjunct. A singularity of