Dusk ever seemed eager to arrive in the forest of stone trees. The tracks he left in the dusty path revealed, to his relief, that he was still alone in walking the trail these days.
Not that the goddess needed trails. But there was a strangeness to Toblakai’s glade, hinting at some kind of investment, as if the clearing had undergone a sanctification of some sort. And if that had indeed occurred, then it might exist as a blind spot in the eye of the Whirlwind Goddess.
But none of this explained why Sha’ik did not ask about Felisin. Ah, L’oric, you are the blind one. Sha’ik’s obsession is Tavore. With each day that leaves us, bringing the two armies ever closer, her obsession grows. As does her doubt and, perhaps, her fear. She is Malazan, after all—I was right in that. And within that waits another secret, this one buried deepest of all. She knows Tavore.
And that knowledge had guided her every action since the Rebirth. Her recalling the Army of the Apocalpyse when virtually within sight of the Holy City’s walls. Retreating into the heart of Raraku…gods, was all that a flight of terror?
A notion that did not bear thinking about.
The glade appeared before him, the ring of trees with their cold, unhuman eyes gazing down upon the small, bedraggled tent—and the young woman huddled before the stone-lined hearth a few paces from it.
She did not look up as he came near. ‘L’oric, I was wondering, how can one tell Bidithal’s cult of murderers from Korbolo Dom’s? It’s a crowded camp these days—I am glad I am hiding here, and in turn I find myself pitying you. Did you finally speak with her today?’
Sighing, he settled down opposite her, removing his shoulder pack and drawing food from it. ‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘Her concerns for the impending clash are…overwhelming her—’
‘My mother did not ask after me,’ Felisin cut in, with a slight smile.
L’oric looked away. ‘No,’ he conceded in a whisper.
‘She knows, then. And has judged as I have—Bidithal is close to exposing the plotters. They need him, after all, either to join the conspiracy, or stand aside. This is a truth that has not changed. And the night is drawing nearer, the night of betrayal. And so, Mother needs him to play out his role.’
‘I am not sure of that, Felisin,’ L’oric began, then shut up.
But she had understood, and her terrible smile broadened. ‘Then the Whirlwind Goddess has stolen the love from her soul. Ah, well, she has been under siege for a long time, after all. In any case, she was not my mother in truth—that was a title she assumed because it amused her to do so—’
‘Not true, Felisin. Sha’ik saw your plight—’
‘I was the first one to see her, when she returned, reborn. A chance occurrence, that I should be out gathering hen’bara on that day. Before that day, Sha’ik had never noticed me—why would she? I was one among a thousand orphans, after all. But then she was…reborn.’
‘Returned to the living as well, perhaps—’
Felisin laughed. ‘Oh, L’oric, you ever strive, don’t you? I knew then, as you must know by now—Sha’ik Reborn is not the same woman as Sha’ik Elder.’
‘That hardly matters, lass. The Whirlwind Goddess chose her—’
‘Because Sha’ik Elder died, or was killed. You did not see the truth as I did, in the faces of Leoman and Toblakai. I saw their uncertainty—they did not know if their ruse would succeed. And that it did, more or less, was as much to me as to any of them. The Whirlwind Goddess chose her out of necessity, L’oric.’
‘As I said, Felisin, it does not matter.’
‘Not to you, perhaps. No, you don’t understand. I saw Sha’ik Elder up close, once. Her glance swept past me, and that glance saw no-one, and at that moment, child though I was, I knew the truth of her. Of her, and of her goddess.’
L’oric unstoppered the jug that had followed the food and raised it to wet a mouth that had suddenly gone dry. ‘And what truth was that?’ he whispered, unable to meet her eyes. Instead, he drank down a deep draught of the unwatered wine.
‘Oh, that we are, one and all, nothing but slaves. We are the tools she will use to achieve her desires. Beyond that, our lives mean nothing to the goddess. But with Sha’ik Reborn, I thought I saw…something different.’
His peripheral vision caught her shrug.
‘But,’ she continued, ‘the goddess is too strong. Her will too absolute. The poison that is indifference…and I well know that taste, L’oric. Ask any orphan, no matter how old they are now, and they will tell you the same. We all sucked at that same bitter tit.’
He knew his tears had broken from his eyes, were running down his cheeks, yet could do nothing to stem them.
‘And now, L’oric,’ she went on after a moment, ‘we are all revealed. Every one of us here. We are all orphans. Think on it. Bidithal, who lost his temple, his entire cult. The same for Heboric. Korbolo Dom, who once stood as an equal in rank with great soldiers, like Whiskeyjack, and Coltaine. Febryl—did you know he murdered his own father and mother? Toblakai, who has lost his own people. And all the rest of us here, L’oric—we were children of the Malazan Empire, once. And what have we done? We cast off the Empress, in exchange for an insane goddess who dreams only of destruction, who seeks to feed on a sea of blood…’
‘And,’ he asked softly, ‘am I too an orphan?’
She had no need to answer, for they both heard the truth in his own pained words.
Osric…
‘Leaving only…Leoman of the Flails.’ Felisin took the wine from his hands. ‘Ah, Leoman. Our flawed diamond. I wonder, can he save us all? Will he get the chance? Among us, only he remains…unchained. No doubt the goddess claims him, but it is an empty claim—you do see that, don’t you?’
He nodded, wiping at his eyes. ‘And I believe I have led Sha’ik to that realization, as well.’
‘She knows, then, that Leoman is our last hope?’
His sigh was ragged. ‘I think so…’
They were silent for a time. Night had arrived, and the fire had died down to ashes, leaving only starlight to illuminate the glade.
It seemed, then, that eyes of stone had slowly assumed life, a crescent row fixed now upon the two of them. A regard avid, gleaming with hunger. L’oric’s head snapped up. He stared out at the ghostly faces, then at the two Toblakai figures, then settled once more, shivering.
Felisin laughed softly. ‘Yes, they do haunt one, don’t they?’
L’oric grunted. ‘A mystery here, in Toblakai’s creations. Those faces—they are T’lan Imass. Yet…’
‘He thought them his gods, yes. So Leoman told me, once, beneath the fumes of durhang. Then he warned me to say nothing to Toblakai.’ She laughed again, louder this time. ‘As if I would. A fool indeed, to step between Toblakai and his gods.’
‘There is nothing simple about that simple warrior,’ L’oric murmured.
‘Just as you are not simply a High Mage,’ she said. ‘You must act soon, you know. You have choices to make. Hesitate too long and they will be made for you, to your regret.’
‘I could well say the same to you in return.’
‘Well then, it seems we still have more to discuss this night. But first, let us eat—before the wine makes us drunk.’
Sha’ik recoiled, staggered back a step. The breath hissed from her in a gust of alarm—and pain. A host of wards swirled around Heboric’s abode, still flickering with the agitation her collision had triggered.
She bit down on her outrage, pitched her voice low as she said, ‘You know who it is who has come, Heboric. Let me pass. Defy me, and I will bring the wrath of the goddess down, here and now.’
A moment’s silence, then, ‘Enter.’
She stepped forward. There was a moment’s pressure, then she stumbled through, brought up short against the crumbled foundation wall. A sudden…absence. Terrifying, bursting like the clearest light where all had been, but a moment earlier, impenetrable gloom. Bereft…yet free. Gods, free—the l
ight—‘Ghost Hands!’ she gasped. ‘What have you done?’
‘The goddess within you, Sha’ik,’ came Heboric’s words, ‘is not welcome in my temple.’
Temple? Roaring chaos was building within her, the vast places in her mind where the Whirlwind Goddess had been now suddenly vacant, filling with the dark, rushing return of…of all that I was. Bitter fury grew like a wildfire as memories rose with demonic ferocity to assail her. Beneth. You bastard. You closed your hands around a child, but what you shaped was anything but a woman. A plaything. A slave to you and your twisted, brutal world.
I used to watch that knife in your hands, the flickering games that were your idle habits. And that’s what you taught me, isn’t it? Cutting for fun and blood. And oh, how I cut. Baudin. Kulp. Heboric—
A physical presence beside her now, the solid feel of hands—jade green, black-barred—a figure, squat and wide and seemingly beneath the shadow of fronds—no, tattoos. Heboric…
‘Inside, lass. I have made you…bereft. An unanticipated consequence of forcing the goddess from your soul. Come.’
And then he was guiding her into the tent’s confines. The air chill and damp, a single small oil lamp struggling against the gloom—a flame that suddenly moved as he lifted the lamp and brought it over to a brazier, where he used its burning oil to light the bricks of dung. And, as he worked, he spoke. ‘Not much need for light…the passage of time…before tasked with sanctioning a makeshift temple…what do I know of Treach, anyway?’
She was sitting on cushions, her trembling hands held before the brazier’s growing flames, furs wrapped about her. At the name ‘Treach’ she started, looked up.
To see Heboric squatting before her. As he had squatted that day, so long ago now, in Judgement’s Round. When Hood’s sprites had come to him…to foretell of Fener’s casting down. The flies would not touch his spiral tattoos. I remember that. Everywhere else, they swarmed like madness. Now, those tattoos had undergone a transformation. ‘Treach.’
His eyes narrowed on hers—a cat’s eyes, now—he can see! ‘Ascended into god-hood, Sha’ik—’
‘Don’t call me that. I am Felisin Paran of House Paran.’ She hugged herself suddenly. ‘Sha’ik waits for me…out there, beyond this tent’s confines—beyond your wards.’
‘And would you return to that embrace, lass?’
She studied the brazier’s fire, whispered, ‘No choice, Heboric.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
A thunderous shock bolted her upright. ‘Felisin!’
‘What?’
‘Felisin Younger! I have not…not seen her! Days? Weeks? What—where is she!’
Heboric’s motion was feline as he straightened, fluid and precise. ‘The goddess must know, lass—’
‘If she does, she’s not told me!’
‘But why would…’
She saw a sudden knowledge in his eyes, and felt her own answering stab of fear. ‘Heboric, what do you—’
Then he was guiding her to the tent flap, speaking as he drove her back step by step. ‘We spoke, you and I, and all is well. Nothing to concern yourself over. The Adjunct and her legions are coming and there is much to do. As well, there are the secret plans of Febryl to keep an eye on, and for that you must rely upon Bidithal—’
‘Heboric!’ She struggled against him, but he would not relent. They reached the flap and he pushed her outside. ‘What are you—’ A hard shove and she stumbled back.
Through a flare of wards.
Sha’ik slowly righted herself. She must have stumbled. Oh yes, a conversation with Ghost Hands. All is well. I’m relieved by that, for it allows me to think on more important things. My nest of betrayers, for example. Must have words with Bidithal again tonight. Yes…
She turned from the ex-priest’s tent and made her way back to the palace.
Overhead, the stars of the desert sky were shimmering, as they often did when the goddess had come close…Sha’ik wondered what had drawn her this time. Perhaps no more than casting a protective eye on her Chosen One…
She was unmindful—as was her goddess—of the barely visible shape that slipped out from the entrance to Heboric’s tent, flowing in a blur into the nearest shadows. Unmindful, also, of the scent that barbed shape now followed.
Westward, to the city’s edge, and then onto the trail, padding between the stone trees, towards a distant glade.
Bidithal sat in the seething shadows, alone once more, although the smile remained fixed on his withered face. Febryl had his games, but so did the once High Priest of the Shadow cult. Even betrayers could be betrayed, after all, a sudden turning of the knife in the hand.
And the sands would fold one more time, the way they did when the air breathed hard, in, out, back, forth, stirring and shifting the grains as would waves against a beach, to lay one layer over another in thin seams of colour. There were no limits to the number of layers, and this Febryl and his fellow conspirators would soon discover, to their grief.
They sought the warren for themselves. It had taken Bidithal a long time to unveil that truth, that deep-buried motivation, for it had remained in the silence between every spoken word. This was not a simple, mundane struggle for power. No. This was usurpation. Expropriation—a detail that itself whispered of yet deeper secrets. They wanted the warren…but why? A question yet to be answered, but find an answer he would, and soon.
In this, he knew, the Chosen One relied upon him, and he would not fail her. In so far as what she expects from me, yes, I will deliver. Of course, there are other issues that extend far beyond Sha’ik, this goddess and the Whirlwind Warren she would rule. The shape of the pantheon itself is at stake…my long-overdue vengeance against those foreign pretenders to the Throne of Shadow.
Even now, if he listened very—very—carefully, he could hear them. And they were coming. Closer, ever closer.
A tremble of fear took his limbs, and shadows scurried away from him momentarily, only returning when he had settled once more. Rashan…and Meanas. Meanas and Thyr. Thyr and Rashan. The three children of the Elder Warrens. Galain, Emurlahn and Thyrllan. Should it be so surprising that they war once more? For do not we ever inherit the spites of our fathers and mothers?
But a ghost of that fear remained. He had not called them, after all. Had not understood the truth of what lay beneath the Whirlwind Warren, the reason why the warren was held in this single place and nowhere else. Had not comprehended how the old battles never died, but simply slept, every bone in the sand restless with memory.
Bidithal raised his hands and the army of shadows crowded within his temple gathered closer.
‘My children,’ he whispered, beginning the Closing Chant.
‘Father.’
‘Do you remember?’
‘We remember.’
‘Do you remember the dark?’
‘We remember the dark. Father—’
‘Ask it and close this moment, children.’
‘Do you remember the dark?’
The priest’s smile broadened. A simple question, one that could be asked of anyone, anyone at all. And perhaps they would understand. But probably not. Yet I understand it.
Do you remember the dark?
‘I remember.’
As, with sighs, the shadows dispersed, Bidithal stiffened once more to that almost inaudible call. He shivered again. They were getting close indeed.
And he wondered what they would do, when they finally arrived.
There were eleven in all. His chosen.
Korbolo Dom leaned back on his cushions, eyes veiled as he studied the silent, shrouded line of figures standing before him. The Napan held a goblet carved from crystal in his right hand, in which swirled a rare wine from the Grisian valleys on Quon Tali. The woman who had kept him amused earlier this night was asleep, her head resting on his right thigh. He had plied her with enough durhang to ensure oblivion for the next dozen bells, though it was the expedience of security rather than any insipid desire on his part
that necessitated such measures.
Drawn from his Dogslayers, the eleven killers were appallingly skilled. Five of them had been personal assassins to Holy Falah’dan in the days before the Empire, rewarded with gifts of alchemy and sorcery to maintain their youthful appearance and vigour.
Three of the remaining six were Malazan—Korbolo Dom’s own, created long ago, when he realized he had cause to worry about the Claw. Cause…now that’s a simplification almost quaint in its coyness. A multitude of realizations, of sudden discoveries, of knowledge I had never expected to gain—of things I had believed long dead and gone. There had been ten such bodyguards, once. Evidence of the need for them stood before him now. Three left, the result of a brutal process of elimination, leaving only those with the greatest skill and the most fortuitous alliance of Oponn’s luck—two qualities that fed each other well.
The remaining three assassins were from various tribes, each of whom had proved his worth during the Chain of Dogs. The arrow from one had slain Sormo E’nath, from a distance of seventy paces, on the Day of Pure Blood. There had been other arrows striking true, but it had been the one through the warlock’s neck—the assassin’s—that had filled the lad’s lungs with blood, that had drowned his very breath, so that he could not call upon his damned spirits for healing…
Korbolo sipped wine, slowly licked his lips. ‘Kamist Reloe has chosen among you,’ he rumbled after a moment, ‘for the singular task that will trigger all that subsequently follows. And I am content with his choices. But do not think this diminishes the rest of you. There will be tasks—essential tasks—on that night. Here in this very camp. I assure you, you will get no sleep that night, so prepare yourselves. Also, two of you will remain with me at all times, for I can guarantee that my death will be sought before that fateful dawn arrives.’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 339
