Shadows crept out from the forest. The moon had risen, prison world to Menandore's true father, who was trapped within it. Father Shadow's ancient battles had made this world, shaped it in so many ways. Scabandari Bloodeye, stalwart defender against the fanatic servants of implacable certitude, whether that certitude blazed blinding white, or was the all-swallowing black. The defeats he had delivered the burying of Brother Dark and the imprisonment of Brother Light there in that distant, latticed world in the sky were both gifts, and not just to the Edur but to all who were born and lived only to one day die.
The gifts of freedom, a will unchained unless one affixed upon oneself such chains the crowding host's uncountable, ever-rattling offers, each whispering promises of salvation against confusion and wore them like armour.
Trull Sengar saw chains upon the Letherii. He saw the impenetrable net which bound them, the links of reasoning woven together into a chaotic mass where no beginning and no end could be found. He understood why they worshipped an empty throne. And he knew the manner in which they would justify all that they did. Progress was necessity, growth was gain. Reciprocity belonged to fools and debt was the binding force of all nature, of every people and every civilization. Debt was its own language, within which were used words like negotiation, compensation and justification, and legality was a skein of duplicity that blinded the eyes of justice.
An empty throne. Atop a mountain of gold coins.
Father Shadow had sought a world wherein uncertainty could work its insidious poison against those who chose intransigence as their weapon with which they held wisdom at bay. Where every fortress eventually crumbled from within, from the very weight of those chains that exerted so inflexible an embrace.
In his mind he argued with that ghost the Betrayer. The one who sought to murder Scabandari Bloodeye all those thousands of years ago. He argued that every certainty is an empty throne. That those who knew but one path would come to worship it, even as it led to a cliff's edge. He argued, and in the silence of that ghost's indifference to his words he came to realize that he himself spoke fierce with heat from the foot of an empty throne. Scabandari Bloodye has never made that world. He had vanished in this one, lost on a path no-one else could follow.