Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  Falling to their knees. Heads bowing.

  Ah, Summoner…

  And, now, it was far too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  There can be no true rendition of betrayal, for the moment hides within itself, sudden, delivering such comprehension that one would surrender his or her own soul to deny all that has come to pass. There can be no true rendition of betrayal, but of that day, Ormulogun's portrayal is the closest to what was true that any mortal could hope to achieve…

  N'aruhl's Commentary on Ormulogun's Slaying of Whiskeyjack

  FOOTSTEPS IN THE HALLWAY ANNOUNCED YET ANOTHER GUEST—COLL had no idea if invited or not—and he pulled his gaze away from the two ancient Rath' councillors kneeling before the burial pit, to see a robed figure appear in the doorway. Unmasked, face strangely indistinct.

  The Knight of Death swung in a crackle of armour to face the newcomer. 'K'rul,' he grated, 'my Lord welcomes you to his sacred abode.' K'rul? Isn't there an old temple in Darujhistan—the one with the belfry—K'rul's Belfry. Some kind of elder… Coll glanced over, met Murillio's eyes, saw the same slow realization writ plain on his friend's features. An Elder God has entered this chamber. Stands a half-dozen paces away. Bern fend us all! Another blood-hungry bastard from antiquity—

  K'rul strode towards the Mhybe.

  Coll, hand settling on the grip of his sword, fear rising to lodge in his throat, stepped into the Elder God's path. 'Hold,' he growled. His heart pounded as he locked gazes with K'rul, seeing in those eyes… nothing. Nothing at all. 'If you're planning on opening her throat on that altar, well, Elder God or not, I won't make it easy for you.'

  Rath'Togg's toothless mouth dropped open in a gasp on the other side of the pit.

  The Knight of Death made a sound that might have been laughter, then said in a voice that was no longer his own, 'Mortals are nothing if not audacious.'

  Murillio moved up to stand at Coll's side, raising a trembling hand to close on the hilt of his rapier.

  K'rul glanced at the undead champion and smiled. 'Their most admirable gift, Hood.'

  'Until it turns belligerent, perhaps. Then, it is best answered by annihilation.'

  'Your answer, yes.' The Elder God faced Coll. 'I have no desire to harm the Mhybe. Indeed, I am here for her… salvation.'

  'Well then,' snapped Murillio, 'maybe you can explain why there's a burial pit in here!'

  'That shall become clear in time… I hope. Know this: something has happened. Far to the south. Something… unexpected. The consequences are unknown—to us all. None the less, the time has come for the Mhybe—'

  'And what does that mean, precisely?' Coll demanded.

  'Now,' the Elder God replied, moving past him to kneel before the Mhybe, 'she must dream for real.'

  They were gone. Gone from her soul, and with their departure—with what Itkovian had done, was doing—all that she had hoped to achieve had been torn down, left in ruins.

  Silverfox stood motionless, cold with shock.

  Kallor's brutal attack had revealed yet another truth—the T'lan Ay had abandoned her. A loss that twisted a knife blade into her soul.

  Once more, betrayal, the dark-hearted slayer of faith. Nightchill's ancient legacy. Tattersail and Bellurdan Skullcrusher both—killed by the machinations of Tayschrenn, the hand of the Empress. And now… Whiskeyjack. The two marines, my twin shadows for so long. Murdered.

  Beyond the kneeling T'lan Imass waited the K'Chain Che'Malle undead. The huge creatures made no move towards the T'lan Imass—yet. They need only wade into the ranks, blades chopping down, and begin destroying. My children are beyond resistance. Beyond caring. Oh, Itkovian, you noble fool.

  And this mortal army—she saw the Grey Swords down below, readying lassos, lances and shields—preparing to charge the K'Chain Che'Malle. Dujek's army was being destroyed within the city—the north gate had to be breached. She saw Gruntle, Trake's Mortal Sword, leading his motley legion down to join the Grey Swords. She saw officers riding before the wavering line of Malazans, rallying the heartbroken soldiers. She saw Artanthos—Tayschrenn—preparing to unleash his warren. Caladan Brood knelt beside Korlat, High Denul sorcery enwreathing the Tiste Andü woman. Orfantal stood behind the warlord—she felt the dragon in his blood, icy hunger, eager to return.

  All for naught. The Seer and his demonic condors… and the K'Chain Che'Malle… will kill them all.

  She had no choice. She would have to begin. Defy the despair, begin all that she had set in motion so long ago. Without hope, she would take the first step on the path.

  Silverfox opened the Warren of Tellann.

  Vanished within.

  A mother's love abides.

  But I was never meant to be a mother. I wasn't ready. I was unprepared to give so much of myself. A self I had only begun to unveil.

  The Mhybe could have turned away. At the very beginning. She could have defied Kruppe, defied the Elder God, the Imass—what were these lost souls to her? Malazans, one and all. The enemy. Dire in the ways of magic. All with the blood of Rhivi staining their hands.

  Children were meant to be gifts. The physical manifestation of love between a man and a woman. And for that love, all manner of sacrifice could be borne.

  Is it enough that the child issued from my flesh? Arrived in this world in the way of all children? Is the simple pain of birth the wellspring of love? Everyone else believed so. They took the bond of mother and child as given, a natural consequence of the birth itself.

  They should not have done that.

  My child was not innocent.

  Conceived out of pity, not love; conceived with dread purpose—to take command of the T'lan Imass, to draw them into yet another war—to betray them.

  And now, the Mhybe was trapped. Lost in a dreamworld too vast to comprehend, where forces were colliding, demanding that she act, that she do… something.

  Ancient gods, bestial spirits, a man imprisoned in pain, in a broken, twisted body. This cage of ribs before me—is it his? The one I spoke with, so long ago? The one writhing so in a mother's embrace? Are we as kin, he and I? Both trapped in ravaged bodies, both doomed to slide ever deeper into this torment of pain?

  The beast waits for me—the man waits for me. We must reach out to each other. To touch, to give proof to both of us that we are not alone.

  Is this what awaits us?

  The cage of ribs, the prison, must be broken from the outside.

  Daughter, you may have forsaken me. But this man, this brother of mine, him I shall not forsake.

  She could not be entirely sure, but she believed that she started crawling once more.

  The beast howled in her mind, a voice raw with agony.

  She would have to free it, if she could. Such was pity's demand.

  Not love.

  Ah, now I see…

  Thus.

  He would embrace them. He would take their pain. In this world, where all had been taken from him, where he walked without purpose, burdened with the lives and deaths of tens of thousands of mortal souls—unable to grant them peace, unable—unwilling—to simply cast them off, he was not yet done.

  He would embrace them. These T'lan Imass, who had twisted all the powers of the Warren of Tellann into a ritual that devoured their souls. A ritual that had left them—in the eyes of all others—as little more than husks, animated by a purpose they had set outside themselves, yet were chained to—for eternity.

  Husks, yet… anything but.

  And that was a truth Itkovian had not expected, had no way to prepare for.

  Insharak Ulan, who was born third to Inal Thoom and Sultha A'rad of the Nashar Clan that would come to be Kron's own, in the spring of the Year of Blighted Moss, below the Land of Raw Copper, and I remember—

  I remember—

  A snow hare, trembling, no more than a dusk-shadow's length from my reach, my child's arm and hand stretching. Streaks in the white, the promise of summer. Trembling hand, trembling hare, born together in
the snows just past. Reaching out. Lives touching—small-heart-patter, slow-drum-hunger my chest's answer to the world's hidden music—I remember—

  Kalas Agkor—my arms wrapped about little Jala, little sister, hot with fever but the fire grew too hot, and so, in my arms, her flesh cooled to dawn-stone, mother keening—Jala was the ember now lifeless, and from that day, in mother's eyes, I became naught but its bed of ash—

  Ulthan Arlad—herd-tracks in the snow, tufts of moult, ay on the flanks, we were hungry in that year yet held to the trail, old as it was—Karas Av riding Bonecaster Thai's son in the Valley of Deep Moss, beneath the sun we were breaking the ancient law—I was breaking the ancient law, I, mate to Ibinahl Chode, made the boy a man before his circle was knotted—

  —in the Year of the Broken Antler, we found wolf cubs—I dreamed I said no to the Ritual, I dreamed I strode to Onos T'oolan's side—

  —a face streaming tears—my tears—

  —Chode, who watched my mate lead the boy into the valley, and knew the child would be remade into a man—knew that he was in the gentlest of hands—

  —the grasslands were burning—ranag in the Horned Circle—I loved her so—

  Voices, a flood, memories—these warriors had not lost them. They had known them as living things—within their own dead bodies. Known them.

  For almost three hundred thousand years.

  —friend to Onrack of the Logros, I last saw him kneeling amidst the corpses of his clan. All slain in the street, yet the Soletaken were finally broken. Ah, at such a cost—

  —oh, heart laid at his feet, dear Legana Breed. So clever, sharpest of wit, oh how he made me laugh—

  —our eyes met, Maenas Lot and I, even as the Ritual began its demand, and we saw the fear in each other's eyes—our love, our dreams of more children, to fill the spaces of those we had lost out on the ice, our lives of mingled shadows—our love, that must now be surrendered—

  —I, Cannig Tol, watched as my hunters hurled their spears. She fell without making a sound, the last of her kind on this continent, and had I a heart, it would have burst, then. There was no justice in this war. We'd left our gods behind, and knelt only before an altar of brutality. Truth. And I, Cannig Tol, shall not turn away from truth—

  Itkovian's mind reeled back, sought to fend off the diluvial tide, to fight himself clear of his own soul's answering cry of sorrow, the torrent of truths shattering his heart, the secrets of the T'lan Imass—no, the Ritual—how—Fener's Tusks, how could you have done that to yourselves?

  And she has denied you. She has denied you all—

  He could not escape—he had embraced their pain, and the flood of memories was destroying him. Too many, too fiercely felt—relived, every moment relived by these lost creatures—he was drowning.

  He had promised them release, yet he knew now he would fail. There was no end, no way he could encompass this yearning gift, this desperate, begging desire.

  He was alone—

  —am Pran Chole, you must hear me, mortal! Alone. Fading…

  Hear me, mortal! There is a place—I can lead you! You must carry all we give you—not far, not long—carry us, mortal! There is a place! Fading… Mortal! For the Grey Swords—you must do this! Hold on—succeed—and you will gift them. I can lead you! For the Grey Swords…

  Itkovian reached out—

  —and a hand, solid, warm, clasped his forearm—

  The ground crawled beneath her. Lichens—green-stalked and green-cupped, the cups filled with red; another kind, white as bone, intricate as coral; and beneath these, grey shark-skin on the mostly buried stones

  —an entire world, here, a hand's width from the ground.

  Her slow, inexorable passage destroyed it all, scraped a swathe through the lichens' brittle architecture. She wanted to weep.

  Ahead, close now, the cage of bone and stained skin, the creature within it a shapeless, massive shadow.

  Which still called to her, still exerted its terrible demand.

  To reach.

  To touch the ghastly barrier.

  The Mhybe suddenly froze in place, a vast, invisible weight pinning her to the ground.

  Something was happening.

  The earth beneath her twisting, flashes through the gathering oblivion, the air suddenly hot. A rumble of thunder—

  Drawing up her legs, pushing with one arm, she managed to roll onto her back. Breath rasping in shallow lungs, she stared—hand held firm. Itkovian began to comprehend. Behind the memories awaited the pain, awaited all that he come to embrace. Beyond the memories, absolution was his answering gift—could he but survive .

  The hand was leading him. Through a mindscape. Yet he strode across it as would a giant, the land distant below him.

  Mortal, shed these memories. Free them to soak the earth in the season's gift. Down to the earth, mortal—through you, they can return life to a dying, desolate land.

  Please. You must comprehend. Memories belong in the soil, in stone, in wind. They are the land's unseen meaning, such that touches the souls of all who would look—truly look—upon it. Touches, in faintest whisper, old, almost shapeless echoes—to which a mortal life adds its own.

  Feed this dreamscape, mortal.

  And know this. We kneel before you. Silenced in our hearts by what you offer to us, by what you offer of yourself.

  You are Itkovian, and you would embrace the T'lan Imass.

  Shed these memories—weep for us, mortal—

  Heaving, churning cloud where before there had been naught but a formless, colourless, impossibly distant dome—the cloud spreading, tumbling out to fill the entire sky, drawing dark curtains across bruised rainbows. Lightning, crimson-stained, flickered from horizon to horizon.

  She watched the falling, watched the descent—rain, no, hail—

  It struck. Drumming roar on the ground, the sound filling her ears—sweeping closer—

  To pummel her.

  She screamed, throwing up her hands.

  Each impact was explosive, something more than simply frozen rain.

  Lives. Ancient, long forgotten lives.

  And memories—

  All raining down.

  The pain was unbearable—

  Then cessation, a shadow slipping over her, close, a figure, hunched beneath the trammelling thud of hail. A warm, soft hand on her brow, a voice—

  'Not much further, dear lass. This storm—unexpected—' the voice broke, gasping as the deluge intensified, 'yet… wonderful. But you must not stop now. Here, Kruppe will help you…'

  Shielding as much of her from the barrage as he could, he began dragging her forward, closer…

  Silverfox wandered. Lost, half blinded by the tears that streamed without surcease. What she had begun as a child, on a long forgotten barrow outside the city of Pale—what she had begun so long ago—now seemed pathetic.

  She had denied the T'lan Imass. Denied the T'lan Ay.

  But only for a time—or so had been her intent. A brief time, in which she would work to fashion the world that awaited them. The spirits that she had gathered, spirits who would serve that ancient people, become their gods—she had meant them to bring healing to the T'lan Imass, to their long-bereft souls.

  A world where her mother was young once more. A dreamworld, gift of K'rul. Gift of the Daru, Kruppe. Gift of love, in answer to all she had taken from her mother. But the T'lan Ay had turned away, were silent to her desperate call—and now Whiskeyjack was dead. Two marines, two women whose solid presence she had come to depend on—more than they could ever have realized. Two marines, killed defending her.

  Whiskeyjack. All that was Tattersail keened with inconsolable grief. She had turned from him as well. Yet he had stepped into Kallor's path. He had done that, for he remained the man he had always been. And now, lost too were the T'lan Imass. The man, Itkovian, the mortal, Shield Anvil without a god, who had taken into himself the slain thousands of Capustan—he had opened his arms—

  You cannot e
mbrace the pain of the T'lan Imass. Were your god still with you, he would have refused your thought. You cannot. They are too much. And you, you are but one man—alone—you cannot take their burden. It is impossible. Heart-breakingly brave. But impossible. Ah, Itkovian…

  Courage had defeated her, but not her own—which had never been strong—no, the courage of those around her. On all sides—Coll and Murillio, with their misguided honour, who had stolen her mother and were no doubt guarding her even now, as she slowly died. Whiskeyjack and the two marines. Itkovian. And even Tayschrenn, who had torn himself—badly—unleashing his warren to drive Kallor away. Such extraordinary, tragically misguided courage—

  I am Nightchill, Elder Goddess. I am Bellurdan, Thelomen Skullcrusher. I am Tattersail, who was once mortal. And I am Silverfox, flesh and blood Bonecaster, Summoner of the T'lan. And I have been defeated. By mortals—The sky heaved over her—she looked up. Eyes widening in disbelief—

  The wolf thrashed, battered against the bone bars of its cage—its cage… my ribs. Trapped. Dying—And that is a pain I share.

  His chest was on fire, blossoms of intense agony lashing into him as if arriving from somewhere outside, a storm, blistering the skin covering his ribs—

  —yet it grew no stronger, indeed, seemed to fade, as if with each wounding something was imparted to him, a gift—

  Gift? This pain? How—what is it? What comes to me? Old, so very old. Bittersweet, lost moments of wonder, of joy, of grief—a storm of memories, not his—so many, arriving like ice, then melting in the flare of impact—he felt his flesh grow numb beneath the unceasing deluge—

  —was suddenly tugged away—

  Blinking in the darkness, his lone eye as blind as the other one—the one he had lost at Pale. Something was pounding at his ears, a sound, then. Shrieking, the floor and walls shaking, chains snapping, dust raining from the low ceiling. I am not alone in here. Who? What? Claws gouged the flagstones near his head, frantic and yearning. Reaching. It wants me. What does? What am I to it? The concussions were growing closer. And now voices, desperate bellowing coming from the other side of walls… down a corridor, perhaps. Clash of weapons, screams and gurgles, clatter of armour—pieces dancing on the floor.