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.’

Shadowthrone grunted, and then said, ‘At least it’s sembled-oh, how I hate dragons! If vermin had a throne, they’d he on it.’

‘Everywhere there’s a mess, they’re in the middle of it, all right. Eleint, Soletaken-hardly a difference, when it comes to trouble.’

‘The chaos of their blood, Cotillion. Imagine how dull it would be without them… and I so cherish dullness.’

‘So,’ Shadowthrone resumed, ‘how does all this fit with your ridiculously convoluted theories?’

‘They’re only convoluted because they are without substance-if you’ll kindly excuse that inadvertent pun. Light, Dark, Shadow. Hounds of this and that and that. These beasts may exist only because of semantics.’

Shadowthrone snorted. ‘You don’t have to clean up after them-the only possible excuse for such an idiotic suggestion. They smell, they slaver and slobber, they scratch and they lick, Cotillion. Oh, and they tear things to pieces. When it suits them.’

‘Because we expect them to.’

‘Really now.’

‘Listen-what was the mess behind the origin of the Deragoth? Wild beasts from the dusty aeons of past ages, seven left in all the world, and the First Emperor-who was anything but-chooses them as the repositories of his divided soul. All very well, but then we have the Hounds of Shadow, and, presumably, the Hounds of Light-’