The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (328 page)

Korlat sighed. ‘Warlord, the unveiling of Kurald Galain … is a permanent manifestation. The city now lies as much within the Tiste Andii warren as within this world.’

‘Aye, meaning the negotiations are properly between Rake and the Malazans. Not me. Tell me, will your Lord claim Coral? Moon’s Spawn…’

There was no need to continue. The city within the mountain of rock still held, trapped in its deepest chambers, massive volumes of water, weight that could not be withstood for much longer. Moon’s Spawn was dying. It would, she knew, have to be abandoned.
A place, our home for so long. Will I grieve? I know not.

‘I have not spoken with Anomander Rake, Warlord. I cannot anticipate his disposition.’ She turned away, began walking towards the gate.

Brood called after her.

Not yet.

She continued on, beneath the gate’s arch, her eyes fixing on the hilltop beyond the shattered corpses carpeting the killing field.
Where I will find him. All that is left. His face, gift of memories, now grown cold. I saw the life flee his eyes. That moment of death, of dying. Withdrawing, away from those eyes, withdrawing, back and away. Leaving, leaving me.

Her steps slowed, the pain of loss threatening to overwhelm her.

Dear Mother Dark, do you look down upon me, now? Do you see me, your child? Do you smile, to see me so broken? I have, after all, repeated your fatal errors of old. Yielding my heart, succumbing to the foolish dream – Light’s dance, you longed for that embrace, didn’t you?

And were betrayed.

You left us, Mother … to eternal silence.

Yet …

Mother Dark, with this unveiling, I feel you close. Was it grief that sent you away, sent you so far from your children? When, in our deadly, young way – our appalling insensitivity – we cursed you. Added another layer to your pain.

These steps … you walked them once.

How can you help but smile?

Rain struck her brow, stung the ragged, open gash of her wound. She halted, looked up, to see Moon’s Spawn directly overhead … weeping down upon her …

… and upon the field of corpses surrounding her, and, beyond and to the right, upon thousands of kneeling T’lan Imass. The dead, the abandoned, a wash of deepening colours, as if in the rain the scene, so softly saturated, was growing more solid, more real. No longer the faded tableau of a Tiste Andii’s regard.
Life, drawn short, to sharpen every detail, flush every colour, to make every moment an ache.

And she could hold back no longer.
Whiskeyjack. My love.

Moments later, her own tears joined the salt-laden water running down her face.

*   *   *

In the gate’s gloom, Caladan Brood stared out, across the stone bridge, over the mangled plain to where Korlat stood halfway to the hill, surrounded by corpses and shattered K’Chain Che’Malle. Watched as her head tilted back, face slowly lifting to the grey shroud of the rain. The black mountain, fissures widening, groans issuing from the dying edifice, seemed to pause directly over her. A heart, once of stone, made mortal once more.

This image – what he now saw – he knew, with bleak certainty, would never leave him.

*   *   *

Silverfox had walked for what seemed a long time, heedless of direction, insensate to all that surrounded her, until distant movement caught her attention. She now stood on the barren tundra, beneath solid white overcast, and watched the approach of the Rhivi spirits.

A small band, pitifully small, less than forty individuals, insignificant in the distance, almost swallowed by the immense landscape, the sky, this damp air with its unforgiving chill that had settled into her bones like the blood of failure.

Events had occurred. Elsewhere in this nascent realm. She could sense that much – the hail, deluge of memories, born from she knew not where. And though they had struck her with the same indiscriminate randomness as they struck the ground on all sides, she had felt but the faintest hint of all that they had contained.

If a gift, then a bitter one.

If a curse, then so too is life itself a curse. For there were lives within that frozen rain. Entire lives, sent down to strike the flesh of this world, to seep down, to thaw the soil with its fecundity.

But it has nothing to do with me.

None of this. All that I sought to fashion … destroyed This dreamworld was itself a memory. Ghostworld of Tellann, remembrance of my own world, from long, long ago. Remembrances, taken from the Bonecaster who was there in my refashioning, taken from the Rhivi spirits, the First Clan, taken from K’rul, from Kruppe. Taken from the slumbering land itself – Burn’s own flesh.

I myself … possessed nothing. I simply stole.

To fashion a world for my mother, a world where she could be young once more, where she could live out a normal life, growing old through the normal span of seasons.

All that I stole from her, I would give back.

Bitterness filled Silverfox. It had begun with that first barrow, outside Pale. This belief in the righteousness, the efficacy, of theft. Justified by the worthiest of ends.

But ownership bereft of propriety was a lie. All that she hoarded was in turn stripped of value. Memories, dreams, lives.

Gone to dust.

The hapless band of Rhivi spirits drew closer, cautiously, hesitating.

Yes. I understand. What demands will I make of you now? How many more empty promises will I voice? I had a people for you, a people who had long since lost their own gods, their own spirits to whom they had once avowed allegiance, were less than the dust they could make of themselves. A people.

For you.

Lost.

What a lesson for four bound souls – no matchmaker, we four.

She did not know what to tell them – these modest, timid spirits.

‘Bonecaster, we greet you.’

Silverfox blinked her eyes clear. ‘Elder Spirit. I have—’

‘Have you seen?’

She saw then, in all their faces, a kind of wonder. And frowned in reply.

‘Bonecaster,’ the foremost Rhivi continued, ‘we have found something. Not far from here – do you know of what we speak?’

She shook her head.

‘There are thrones, Bonecaster. Two thrones. In a long hut of bones and hide.’

Thrones?
‘What – why? Why should there be thrones in this realm? Who—?’

The elder shrugged, then offered her a soft smile. ‘They await, Bonecaster. We can feel the truth of that. Soon. Soon, will come this warren’s true masters.’

‘True masters!’ Anger flared in Silverfox. ‘This realm – it was for
you!
Who dares seek to usurp—’

‘No,’ the spirit’s quiet denial cut through her, swept the breath from her lungs. ‘Not for us. Bonecaster, we are not powerful enough to command such a world as this. It has grown too vast, too powerful. Do not fear – we do not wish to leave, and we will endeavour to treat with the new masters. I believe they will permit us to remain. Perhaps indeed we will find ourselves pleased to serve them.’

‘No!’
No! Not how it was supposed to be!

‘Bonecaster, there is no need for such strong feelings within you. The shaping continues. The fulfilment of your desires is still possible – perhaps not in the manner you originally intended…’

She no longer heard him. Despair was sundering her soul.
As I stole … so it has been stolen from me. There is no injustice here, no crime. Accept the truth.

Nightchill’s strength of will.

Tattersail’s empathy.

Bellurdan’s loyalty.

A Rhivi child’s wonder.

None were enough. None could of themselves – or together – absolve what has been done, the choices made, the denials voiced.

Leave them. Leave them to this, to all of this, and all that is to come.
Silverfox turned away. ‘Find her, then. Go.’

‘Will you not walk with us? Your gift to her—’

‘Go.’

My gift to her. My gift to you. They are all as one. Grand failures, defeats born from the flaws within me. I will not stand witness to my own shame – I cannot. I have not the courage for that.

I’m sorry.

She walked away.

Brief flower. Seed to stalk to deadly blossom, all in the span of a single day. Bright-burning poison, destroying all who came too close.

An abomination.

*   *   *

The Rhivi spirits – a small band, men, women, children and elders, wearing hides and furs, their round faces burnished by sun and wind – watched Silverfox leave them. The elder who had spoken with her did not move until she slipped out of sight beneath the rim of a worn beach ridge, then he ran the back of four spread fingers across his eyes in a gesture of sad departing, and said, ‘Build a fire. Prepare the ranag’s shoulder blade. We have walked this land enough to see the map within.’

‘Once more,’ an old woman sighed.

The elder shrugged. ‘The Bonecaster commanded that we find her mother.’

‘She will simply flee us again. As she did the ay. Like a hare—’

‘None the less. The Bonecaster has commanded. We shall lay the blade upon the flames. We shall see the map find its shape.’

‘And why should it be true this time?’

The elder slowly lowered himself to press a hand down on the soft mosses. ‘Why? Open your senses, doubting one. This land…’ he smiled, ‘now lives.’

*   *   *

Running.

Free!

Riding the soul of a god, within the muscles of a fierce, ancient beast. Riding a soul—

— suddenly singing with joy. Mosses and lichen beneath the paws, spray of old rain water to streak the leg-fur. Smell of rich, fertile life – a world—

Running. Pain already a fading memory, vague recollections of a cage of bone, growing pressure, ever more shallow breaths.

Throwing head back, loosing a thunderous howl that trembled the sky.

Distant answers.

Which drew closer.

Shapes, grey, brown and black flashes of movement on the tundra, streaming over ridges, sweeping down into shallow valleys, broad moraines. Ay. Kin. The children of Baaljagg – of Fanderay – ghost memories that were the souls of the T’lan Ay. Baaljagg had not released them, had held to them, within herself, within her dreams – in an ageless world into which an Elder God had breathed eternal life.

Ay.

Their god had challenged the heavens with his bestial voice, and now they came to him.

And … another.

Togg slowed, head lifting – the ay all around him now, clan after clan, long-legged tundra wolves swirling—

She was here. She had come.

She had found him.

Running. Coming nearer. Shoulder to shoulder with Baaljagg, with the ay who had carried her wounded, lost soul for so long. Baaljagg, coming to rejoin her kin – the kin of her dreams.

Emotions. Beyond measure—

Then, Fanderay was padding at his side.

Their beast-minds touched. A moment. Nothing else. Nothing more was needed.

Together, shoulders brushing—

Two ancient wolves. God and goddess.

He looked upon them, without knowing who he, himself, was; nor even where he might be, that he might so witness this reunion. Looked, and, for these two, knew nothing but gentle joy.

Running.

Ahead awaited their thrones.

*   *   *

The Mhybe’s head snapped up, her body stiffening, writhing in an attempt to break his grip. Small as he was, his strength defeated her.

‘Wolves, lass. We’ve nothing to fear.’

Nothing to fear. Lies. They have hunted me. Again and again. Pursuing me across this empty land. And now, listen, they come once more. And this Daru who drags me, he has not even so much as a knife.

‘Something ahead,’ Kruppe gasped, shifting his awkward embrace as he staggered under her weight ‘Easier,’ he panted, ‘when you were but a hag! Now, but you found the will, you could throw me down – nay! You could carry
me!
’

Will. Need I only find the will? To break from this grip? To flee?

Flee where?

‘Lass, hear Kruppe’s words! He begs you! This – this world – Kruppe’s dream no longer! Do you understand? It must pass from me. It must be passed on!’

They were stumbling up a gentle slope.

Wolves howled behind them, fast approaching.

Leave me.

‘Dearest Mhybe, so aptly named! You are the vessel in truth, now! Within you – take this dream from me. Allow it to fill your spirit. Kruppe must pass it on to you – do you understand?’

Will.

She twisted suddenly, threw an elbow into Kruppe’s stomach. He gasped, doubled over. She pulled herself free as he fell, leapt to her feet—

Behind them, tens of thousands of wolves. Charging towards her. And, leading them, two gigantic beasts that radiated blinding power.

The Mhybe cried out, spun.

A shallow depression before her. A long, low hut of arched bones, hides, bound with hemp rope, the entrance yawning wide.

And, standing in a clump before the hut, a band of Rhivi.

The Mhybe staggered towards them.

Wolves were suddenly all around, flowing in a wild, chaotic circle around the hut. Ignoring the Rhivi. Ignoring her.

Groaning, Kruppe levered himself, after a couple of tries, to his feet. Weaving, he joined her. She stared at him without comprehension.

He drew a faded handkerchief from his sleeve and daubed the sweat from his brow. ‘Any lower with that elbow, dear…’

‘What? What is happening?’