The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (329 page)

Kruppe paused, looked around. ‘They are within, then.’

‘Who?’

‘Why, Togg and Fanderay, of course. Come to claim the Beast Throne. Or, in this case,
Thrones.
Not that, should we enter the hut, we will see two wolves perched on chairs, of course. Presence alone asserts possession, no doubt. Kruppe’s imagination tempts other, shall we say, prosaic images, but best avoid those, yes? Now, lass, permit Kruppe to edge back Those who approach you now – well, this is the passing of a dream, from one to the other, and into the background noble Kruppe must now go.’

She swung round.

A Rhivi elder faced her, face creasing in a sad smile. ‘We asked her to come with us,’ he said.

The Mhybe frowned. ‘Asked who?’

‘Your daughter. This world – it is for you. Indeed, it exists within you. With this world, your daughter asks for forgiveness.’

‘S-she made this—’

‘There were many participants, each and all driven by the injustice that befell you. There was … desperation, the day your daughter was … created. The one known as Kruppe. The Elder God, K’rul. The one named Pran Chole. And yourself. And, when she gathered us within her, ourselves as well. Silverfox sought to answer yet more – the tragedy that are the T’lan Imass and the T’lan Ay. It may be,’ he added, one hand making a faint gesture of bereavement, ‘that what her heart sought has proved too vast—’

‘Where is she? Where is my daughter?’

The elder shook his head. ‘Despair has taken her. Away.’

The Mhybe fell silent.
I was hunted. You were hunting me. And the ay.
She looked down, slowly raised her youthful limbs.
Is this real, then?
She slowly turned about, looked across to meet Kruppe’s eyes.

The Daru smiled.

The old woman …

‘Will I awaken?’

Kruppe shook his head. ‘That woman now sleeps eternal, lass. Warded, guarded. Your daughter spoke with Hood. Reached an agreement, yes? She believes, having lost the T’lan Imass, that she has broken it. Yet, one cannot but think that there are facets to this … resolution. Kruppe remains confident.’

An agreement. Freedom for the T’lan Imass. An end. Their souls … delivered to Hood.

Spirits below – she has lost them? Lost the T’lan Imass?
‘Hood will not abide—’

‘Ah, but won’t he? Whyever not, dear? If the Lord of Death is without patience, then Kruppe can dance on Coll’s pointy head! Which he most assuredly cannot. You shall
not
return to that ancient body.’

The Mhybe glanced back at the Rhivi spirits. ‘Will I age here? Will I eventually…’

The elder shrugged. ‘I do not know, but I suspect not. You are the vessel. The Mhybe.’

The Mhybe … Oh, Silverfox. Daughter. Why are you not here? Why can I not look now into your eyes. The begging for forgiveness goes both ways.
She drew a deep breath, tasted the sweet life filling the cool, moist air.
So easily, then, to take this world into myself.
She removed the first copper bracelet, held it out to the Rhivi. ‘This is yours, I believe.’

The elder smiled. ‘Did its power serve you well?’

She nodded. ‘Without measure…’

A presence filled her mind.
‘Mhybe.’

Togg, a rumbling power, the will of winter itself.

‘We reside within this realm, realm of the Beast Thrones, but you are its mistress. There is one within me. A mortal spirit. Cherished spirit. I would release him. We would release him. From this realm. Do you give us—’

Yes. Release him.

*   *   *

Benediction. Godless, he could not give it. Not in its truest form.

But he had not comprehended the vast capacity within him, within a mortal soul, to take within itself the suffering of tens of thousands, the multitudes who had lived with loss and pain for almost three hundred thousand years.

He saw faces, countless faces. Desiccated, eyes nothing more than shadowed pits. Dry, torn skin. He saw bone glimmering from between layers of root-like tendons and muscles. He saw hands, chipped, splintered, empty now – yet the ghost of swords lingered there still.

He was on his knees, looking out upon their ranks, and it was raining, a wavering deluge accompanied by reverberating groans, splintering cracks filling the darkness above.

He looked upon them, and they were motionless, heads bowed.

Yet he could see their faces. Each face. Every face.

I have your pain.

Heads slowly lifted.

He sensed them, sensed the sudden lightness permeating them.
I have done all I am able to do. Yes, it was not enough, I know. Yet. I have taken your suffering—

‘You have taken our suffering, mortal.’

Into myself—

‘We do not understand how.’

And so I will now leave you—

‘We do not understand … why.’

For all that my flesh cannot encompass—

‘We cannot answer the gift you have given.’

I will take with me.

‘Please, mortal—’

Somehow.

‘The reason. Please. That you would so bless us—’

I am the …

‘Mortal?’

Your pardon, sirs. You wish to know of me. I am … a mortal, as you say. A man, born three decades ago in the city of Erin. My family name, before I surrendered it to Fener’s Reve, was Otanthalian. My father was a hard, just man. My mother smiled but once in all the years I knew her. The moment when I departed. Still, it is the smile I remember. I think now that my father embraced in order to possess. That she was a prisoner. I think, now, that her smile answered my escape. I think now that in my leaving, I took something of her with me. Something worthy of being set free.

Fener’s Reve. In the Reve … I wonder, did I simply find for myself another prison?

‘She is free within you, mortal.’

That would be … a good thing.

‘We, would not lie to you, Itkovian Otanthalian. She is free. And smiles still. You have told us what you were. But we still do not understand – your … generosity. Your compassion. And so we ask again. Why have you done this for us?’

Sirs, you speak of compassion. I understand something, now, of compassion. Would you hear?

‘Speak on, mortal.’

We humans do not understand compassion. In each moment of our lives, we betray it. Aye, we know of its worth, yet in knowing we then attach to it a value, we guard the giving of it, believing it must be earned. T’lan Imass. Compassion is priceless in the truest sense of the word. It must be given freely. In abundance.

‘We do not understand, but we will consider long your words.’

There is always more to do, it seems.

‘You do not answer our question—’

No.

‘Why?’

Beneath the rain, as darkness gathered, with every face raised to him, Itkovian closed himself about all that he held within him, closed himself, then fell back.

Back.

Because. I was the Shield Anvil. But now …

I am done.

And beneath the Moon’s torrential rain, he died.

*   *   *

On the vast, reborn tundra with its sweet breath of spring, Silverfox looked up.

Standing before her were two T’lan Imass. One speared through with swords. The other so badly battered that it could barely stand.

Beyond them, silent, motionless, the T’lan Ay.

Silverfox made to turn away.

‘No. You shall not.’

Silverfox glared back at the battered warrior who’d spoken. ‘You dare torment me?’ she hissed.

The T’lan Imass seemed to rock in the face of her vehemence, then steadied. ‘I am Onos T’oolan, First Sword. You are the Summoner. You shall listen to me.’

Silverfox said nothing for a long moment, then she nodded. ‘Very well. Speak.’

‘Free the T’lan Ay.’

‘They have denied me—’

‘They are here before you, now. They have come. Their spirits await them. They would be mortal once more, in this world that you have created. Mortal, no longer lost within dreams, Summoner. Mortal. Gift them. Now.’

Gift them …
‘And this is what they wish?’

‘Yes. Reach to them, and you will know the truth of that.’

No, no more pain.
She raised her arms, drew on the power of Tellann, closed her eyes –
for too long have they known chains. For too long have these creatures known the burden of loyalty—

—and released them of the Ritual. An effort demanding so little of herself, she was left feeling appalled.
So easy, then, to release. To make free once more.

She opened her eyes. The undead wolves were gone.

Not into oblivion, however. Their souls had been reunited, she knew, with flesh and bone. Extinct no longer. Not here, within this realm and its wolf gods. She was a Bonecaster, after all. Such gifts were hers to give.
No, they are not gifts. They are what I was fashioned to do, after all. My purpose. My sole purpose.

Onos T’oolan’s bones creaked as he slowly looked around, scanning the now empty barrens surrounding them. His shoulders seemed to slump. ‘Summoner. Thank you. The ancient wrong is righted.’

Silverfox studied the First Sword. ‘What else do you wish of me?’

‘She who stands beside me is Lanas Tog. She will lead you back to the T’lan Imass. Words must be exchanged.’

‘Very well.’

Onos T’oolan made no move.

Silverfox frowned. ‘What are we waiting for, then?’

He was motionless a moment longer, then he reached up and slowly drew his flint sword. ‘For me,’ he rasped, raising the sword—

—then releasing it, to fall to the ground at his feet.

She frowned down at the weapon, wondering at the significance of the gesture – from the warrior who was called the First Sword.

Slowly, as comprehension filled her, her eyes widened.

What, after all, I was fashioned to do …

*   *   *

‘The time has come.’

Coll started. He had been dozing. ‘What? What time?’

Murillio rushed over to the Mhybe.

The Knight of Death continued, ‘She is ready for interment. My Lord has avowed his eternal protection.’

The Elder God, K’rul, was studying the huge, undead warrior. ‘I remain bemused. No – astonished. Since when has Hood become a generous god?’

The Knight slowly faced K’rul. ‘My Lord is ever generous.’

‘She’s still alive,’ Murillio pronounced, straightening to place himself between the Mhybe and the Knight of Death. ‘The time has
not
come.’

‘This is not a burial,’ K’rul said to him. ‘The Mhybe now sleeps, and will sleep for ever more. She sleeps, to dream. And within her dream, Murillio, lives an entire world.’

‘Like Burn?’ Coll asked.

The Elder God smiled in answer.

‘Wait a moment!’ Murillio snapped. ‘Just how many sleeping old women are there?’

‘She must be laid to rest,’ the Knight of Death pronounced.

Coll stepped forward, settled a hand on Murillio’s shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s make sure she’s comfortable down there – furs, blankets…’

Murillio seemed to shiver under Coll’s hand. ‘After all this?’ He wiped at his eyes. ‘We just … leave her? Here, in a tomb?’

‘Help me with the bedding, my friend,’ Coll said.

‘There is no need,’ the Knight said. ‘She will feel nothing.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Coll sighed. He was about to say something more, then he saw that Rath’Fanderay and Rath’Togg had both removed their masks. Pallid, wrinkled faces, eyes closed, streaming with tears. ‘What’s wrong with them?’ he demanded.

‘Their gods have finally found each other, Coll. Within the Mhybe’s realm, home now to the Beast Thrones. You do not witness sorrow, but joy.’

After a moment, Coll grunted. ‘Let’s get to work, Murillio. Then we can go home.’

‘I still want to know about these old women dreaming up worlds like this!’

*   *   *

The warren flared, the three figures emerging from it spilling onto dusty grey earth in a tangle.

Paran rolled clear of Quick Ben and the Seer as sorcery roiled around the two grappling men. As the captain drew his sword, he heard the Jaghut shriek. Black webs raced, wrapped tight about the thrashing Seer.

Gasping, Quick Ben kicked himself away, the Finnest in his hands.

Crouched on the Jaghut’s chest was a tiny figure of twigs and knotted grasses, cackling with glee.

‘Who in Hood’s name—’

A massive black shape exploded from the portal with a hissing snarl. Paran cried out, wheeled, sword swinging in a desperate horizontal slash.

Which bit muscle then bone.

Something – a paw – hammered Paran’s chest, throwing him from his feet.

‘Stop – you damned cat!’

Quick Ben’s frantic shout was punctuated by a sorcerous detonation that made the panther scream in pain.

‘On your feet, Paran!’ the wizard gasped. ‘I’ve nothing left.’

On my feet? Gods, I feel broken into a thousand pieces, and the man wants me on my feet.
Somehow, he pushed himself upright, tottering as he faced the beast once more.

It crouched six paces away, tail thrashing, coal-lit eyes fixed on his own. It bared its fangs in a silent snarl.

From somewhere within the captain emerged an answering growl. Deeper than a human throat could manage. A brutal strength flowed into him, stealing from him all awareness of his own body – except that now, he realized, he was – somehow – on eye-level with the gigantic panther.

He heard Quick Ben’s ragged whisper behind him:
‘Abyss below!’

The cat, ears laid back flat, was clearly hesitating.

What in Hood’s name is it seeing?

‘Bonecaster!’ Quick Ben snapped. ‘Hold. Look around you – see where we are! We’re not your enemies – we seek what you seek. Here. Right now.’