The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (881 page)

Desra stood at the window, the inside shutters pulled to either side, staring out upon an empty main street as the night crawled on, leaving Nimander to wonder at the nature of her internal dialogue – if such a thing existed, if she was not just a creature of sensation, riding currents of instinct, every choice reframed into simple demands of necessity.

‘
There is cruelty in your thoughts.
'

Phaed.
Leave me alone, ghost.

‘
Don't get me wrong. I approve. Desra is a slut. She has a slut's brain, the kind that confuses giving with taking, gift with loss, invitation with surrender. She is power's whore, Nimander, and so she stands there, waiting to see him, waiting to see this strutting murderer that she would take to her bed. Confusions, yes. Death with life. Desperation with celebration. Fear with need and lust with love.
'

Go away.

‘
But you don't really want
that,
because then it would leave you vulnerable to that other voice in your head. The sweet woman murmuring all those endearing words – do I recall ever hearing such when she was alive?
'

Stop.

‘
In the cage of your imagination, blissfully immune to all that was real – the cruel indifferences, yes – you make so much of so little, Nimander. A chance smile. A look. In your cage she lies in your arms, and this is the purest love, isn't it? Unsullied, eternal—
'

Stop, Phaed. You know nothing. You were too young, too self-obsessed, to see anything of anyone else, unless it threatened you.

‘
And she was not a threat?
'

You never wanted me that way – don't be absurd, ghost. Don't invent—

‘
I invent nothing! You were just too blinded to see what was right in front of you! And did she die at the spear of a Tiste Edur? Did she truly? Where was I at that moment, Nimander? Do you recall seeing me at all?
'

No, this was too much.

But she would not relent. ‘
Why do you think the idea of killing Sandalath was so easy for me? My hands were already stained—
'

Stop!

Laughter, ringing through his head.

He willed himself to say nothing, waited for those chilling peals of mirth to dwindle, grow ever fainter.

When she spoke again in his mind there was no humour at all in her tone. ‘
Nenanda wants to replace you. He wants the command you possess, the respect the others hold for you. He will take it, when he sees his chance. Do not trust him, Nimander. Strike first. A knife in the back – just as you acted to stop me, so you must do again, and this time you cannot fail. There will be no Withal there to finish the task. You will have to do it yourself
.'

Nimander lifted his gaze, looked upon Nenanda, the straight back, the hand resting on pommel.
No, you are lying.

‘
Delude yourself if you must – but not for much longer. The luxury must be shortlived. You will need to show your…decisiveness, and soon.
'

And how many more kin do you want to see dead, Phaed?

‘
My games are done with. You ended them once and for all. You and the swordsmith. Hate me if you will, but I have talents, and I gift them to you, Nimander – you were the only one to ever listen to me, the only one to whom I opened my heart—
'

Heart? That vile pool of spite you so loved to swim in – that was your heart?

‘
You need me. I give strength where you are weakest. Oh, make the bitch murmur of love, fill her mouth with all the right words. If it helps. But she cannot help you with the hard choices a leader must make. Nenanda believes he can do better – see it in his eyes, so quick to challenge.
'

‘It's growing light,' Desra said from the window. She turned. ‘I think we should go out. To the tavern. It may be he is wounded. It may be he needs our help.'

‘I recall him not asking for it,' growled Nenanda.

‘He is not all-powerful,' said Desra, ‘though he might affect such – it comes with being so young.'

Nimander stared across at her. Where did that insight come from?

‘Clip is vulnerable?' Kedeviss asked in mock surprise. ‘Be quick to take advantage of that, Desra.'

‘The endless siege that is your envy grows wearisome, Kedeviss.'

Kedeviss paled at that and said nothing.

Oh, we are a vicious bunch, are we not?
Nimander rubbed at his face, then said, ‘Let's go, then, and see for ourselves what has become of him.'

Desra was first through the door.

Out into pale silvery light, a cerulean sky devoid of clouds, looking somehow speckled with grit. The harvested plants drooped in their racks, sodden with dew, the bulbs like swollen heads lined up in rows above the latticework. Nimander saw, as he paused out on the street, that the temple's doors were ajar.

Clip was lying on the wooden sidewalk in front of the tavern, curled up, so covered in dried blood that he might have been a figure moulded in black mud.

They set out towards him.

Clip's eyes were open, staring – Nimander wondered if he was dead, until he saw the slow rise and fall of his chest – but showing no awareness of anything, even as they closed round him, even as Nimander knelt in front of him.

Skintick moved up to the tavern doors, pushed them open and stepped inside. He staggered out a moment later, both hands covering his face as he stumbled out into the middle of the street and stood there, back to the others.

Slaughter. He slaughtered them all.
Clip's sword was lying nearby, thick with gore, as if the entire weapon had been dragged through some enormous beast.

‘They took something from him,' Aranatha said. ‘Gone. Gone away.'

Nenanda broke into a jog, straight for the temple opposite.

‘Gone for good?' Nimander asked Aranatha.

‘I don't know.'

‘How long can he live this way?'

She shook her head. ‘Force food and water into him, keep his wounds clean…'

Long moments when no one spoke, when it seemed not a single question could be found, could be cleaned off and uttered in the name of normality.

Nenanda returned. ‘They've fled, the priests, all fled. Where was the Dying God supposed to be?'

‘A place named Bastion,' said Kedeviss. ‘West of here, I think.'

‘We need to go there,' Nimander said, straightening to face the others.

Nenanda bared his teeth. ‘To avenge him.'

‘To get him back,' Nimander retorted. ‘To get back to him whatever they took.'

Aranatha sighed. ‘Nimander…'

‘No, we go to Bastion. Nenanda, see if there're any horses, or better yet, an ox and wagon – there was a large stable behind the inn.' He looked down at Clip. ‘I don't think we have the time to walk.'

As the three women set out to collect the party's gear, followed for the moment by Nenanda, Nimander turned to study the tavern's entrance. He hesitated – even from here he could see something: dark sprawled shapes, toppled chairs; and now the buzz of flies spun out from the gloom within.

‘Don't,' said Skintick behind him. ‘Nimander. Don't.'

‘I have seen dead people before.'

‘Not like these.'

‘Why?'

‘They are all smiling.'

Nimander faced his closest friend, studied his ravaged face, and then nodded. After a moment he asked, ‘What made the priests flee?'

‘Aranatha, I think,' answered Skintick.

Nimander nodded, believing the same. They had taken Clip – even with all the dead villagers, the priests had taken Clip, perhaps his very soul, as a gift to the Dying God. But they could do nothing against the rest of them – not while Aranatha resisted. Fearing retribution, they fled in the night – away, probably to Bastion, to the protection of their god.

‘Nimander,' said Skintick in a low, hollow voice, ‘we are forced.'

‘Yes.'

‘Awakened once more.'

‘Yes.'

‘I had hoped…never again.'

I know, Skintick. You would rather smile and jest, as befits your blessed nature. Instead, the face you will turn towards what is to come…it will be no different from ours, and have we not all looked upon one another in those times? Have we not seen the mirrors we became to each other? Have we not recoiled?

Awakened.

What lay in the tavern was only the beginning. Merely Clip and his momentary, failing frenzy.

From this point on, what comes belongs to us.

To that, even Phaed was silent. While somewhere in the mists of his mind, so faint as to be almost lost, a woman wept.

 

It was a quirk of blind optimism that held that someone broken could, in time, heal, could reassemble all the pieces and emerge whole, perhaps even stronger for the ordeal. Certainly wiser, for what else could be the reward for suffering? The notion that did not sit well, with anyone, was that one so broken might remain that way – neither dying (and so removing the egregious example of failure from all mortal eyes) nor improving. A ruined soul should not be stubborn, should not cling to what was clearly a miserable existence.

Friends recoil. Acquaintances drift away. And the one who fell finds a solitary world, a place where no refuge could be found from loneliness when loneliness was the true reward of surviving for ever maimed, for ever weakened. Yet who would not choose that fate, when the alternative was pity?

Of course, pity was a virtually extinct sentiment among the Tiste Andii, and this Endest Silann saw as a rare blessing among his kind. He could not have suffered such regard for very long. As for the torment of his memories, well, it was truly extraordinary how long one could weather that assault. Yet he knew he was not unique in this matter – it was the burden of his entire people, after all. Sufficient to mitigate his loneliness? Perhaps.

Darkness had been silent for so long now, his dreams of hearing the whisper of his realm – of his birthplace – were less than ashes. It was no wonder, then, was it, that he now sat in the gloom of his chamber, sheathed in sweat, each trickle seeming to drink all warmth from his flesh. Yes, they had manifested Kurald Galain here in this city, an act of collective will. Yet it was a faceless power – Mother Dark had left them, and no amount of desire on their part could change that.

So, then, what is this?

Who speaks with such power?

Not a whisper but a shout, a cry that bristled with…what?
With affront. Indignation. Outrage. Who is this?

He knew that he was not alone in sensing this assault – others must be feeling it, throughout Black Coral. Every Tiste Andii probably sat or stood motionless at this moment, heart pounding, eyes wide with fear and wonder. And, perhaps,
hope
.

Could it be?

He thought to visit the temple, to hear from the High Priestess herself…something, a pronouncement, a recognition proclaimed. Instead, he found himself staggering out of his room, hurrying up the corridor, and then ascending the stairs, round and round as if caught in a swirling fever. Out into his Lord's south-facing demesne – stumbling in to find Anomander Rake seated in his high-backed chair, facing the elongated window and, far below, crashing seas painted black and silver as deep, unknown currents thrashed.

‘My Lord,' Endest gasped.

‘Did I have a choice?' Anomander Rake asked, gaze still on the distant tumult.

‘My Lord?'

‘Kharkanas. Did you agree with her…assessment? Endest Silann? Did I not see true what was to come? Before Light's arrival, we were in a civil war. Vulnerable to the forces soon to be born. Without the blood of Tiamatha, I could never have enforced…peace. Unification.'

‘Sire,' said Endest Silann, then found he could not go on.

Rake seemed to understand, for he sighed and said, ‘Yes, a most dubious peace. For so many, the peace of death. As for unification, well, that proved woefully shortlived, did it not? Still, I wonder, if I had succeeded – truly succeeded – would that have changed her mind?'

‘My Lord – something is happening.'

‘Yes.'

‘What must we do?'

‘Ah, my friend, you are right to ask that. Never mind the High Priestess and her answer – always the same one with her, yes? Who cries the war cry of Kurald Galain? Let us seek the answer between her legs. Even that can grow tiresome, eventually. Although do not repeat my words to Spinnock Durav – I would not disaffect his occasional pleasure.'

Endest Silann wanted to shriek, wanted to lunge against his Lord, grasp him by the neck, and force out – force out what? He did not know. The Son of Darkness was, to his mind, the smartest creature – mortal, immortal, it mattered not – that he had ever met. His thoughts travelled a thousand tracks simultaneously, and no conversation with him could be predicted, no path deemed certain.

‘I cannot give answer this time,' Anomander Rake then said. ‘Nor, I am afraid, can Spinnock. He will be needed…elsewhere.' And now his head turned, and his eyes fixed upon Endest Silann. ‘It must fall to you, again. Once more.'

Endest felt his soul recoil in horror, shrink back into whatever cave it had clawed out for itself somewhere down in the mined-out pit of his heart. ‘Sire, I cannot.'

Anomander seemed to consider that for a time, ten thousand tracks danced across, on to something new that triggered faint surprise on his features. And he smiled. ‘I understand. I will not ask again, then.'

‘Then…then what – who? Sire – I do not—'

The wryness of Anomander Rake's tone jarred terribly with his words, ‘Reborn into fury, oh, would that I could see that.' Then his voice grew sober. ‘You were right – you cannot stand in my stead. Do not intercede in any way, Endest Silann. Do not set yourself between two forces, neither of which you can withstand. You may well feel the need, but defy it with all your will. You must not be lost.'