‘You doubt your own words, then.’
‘Always, Karsa. On a more mundane level, words are like gods-a means of keeping the terror at bay. I will likely have nightmares about this until my aged heart finally gives out. An endless succession of heads, with all-too-cognizant eyes, to wrap up in sealskin. And with each one I tie up, pop ! Another appears.’
‘Your words are naught but foolishness.’
‘Oh, and how many souls have you delivered unto darkness, Karsa Orlong?’
The Teblor’s eyes narrowed. ‘I do not think it was darkness that they found,’ he replied quietly. After a moment, he looked away, struck silent by a sudden realization. A year ago he would have killed someone for saying what Torvald had just said, had he understood its intent to wound-which in itself was unlikely. A year ago, words had been blunt, awkward things, confined within a simple, if slightly mysterious world. But that flaw had been Karsa’s alone-not a characteristic of the Teblor in general-for Bairoth Gild had flung many-edged words at Karsa, a constant source of amusement for the clever warrior though probably dulled by Karsa’s own unawareness of their intent.
Torvald Nom’s endless words-but no, more than just that-all that Karsa had experienced since leaving his village-had served as instruction on the complexity of the world. Subtlety had been a venomed serpent slithering unseen through his life. Its fangs had sunk deep many times, yet not once had he become aware of their origin; not once had he even understood the source of the pain. The poison itself had coursed deep within him, and the only answer he gave-when he gave one at all-was of violence, often misdirected, a lashing out on all sides.
Darkness, and living blind . Karsa returned his gaze to the Daru kneeling and wrapping severed heads, there on the mizzen deck. And who has dragged the cloth from my eyes? Who has awakened Karsa Orlong, son of Synyg? Urugal ? No, not Urugal. He knew that for certain, for the otherworldly rage he had felt in the cabin, that icy breath that had swept through him-that had belonged to his god. A fierce displeasure-to which Karsa had found himself oddly… indifferent.
The Seven Faces in the Rock never spoke of freedom. The Teblor were their servants. Their slaves .
‘You look unwell, Karsa,’ Torvald said, approaching. ‘I am sorry for my last words-’
‘There is no need, Torvald Nom,’ Karsa said, rising. ‘We should return to our-’
He stopped as the first splashes of rain struck him, then the deck on all sides. Milky, slimy rain.