‘I wish it not.’
The huge figure shrugged. ‘Already we share something.’
Anomander shook his head. ‘You are no friend, Caladan Brood. Nor will you ever be. I cannot even be certain that your gift was not the curse at the heart of all that has happened here.’
‘Nor can I, Anomander. Another thing we share.’
The First Son set a hand upon his sword’s grip.
But the Azathanai shook his head. ‘This is not the time, Anomander, to draw that weapon in this place. I see behind you a priest. I see in his hands the power of Mother Dark, and the blood she now bleeds, and so the bargain of faith is made.’
‘I do not understand—’
‘Lord Anomander, she has now the power of an Azathanai. This power is born of blood, and in the birth of a god, or goddess, it is that entity that must first surrender it. And you who are to be her children, you will surrender your own in answer. And by this, Darkness is forged.’
But Anomander backed away. ‘I made no such bargain,’ he said.
‘Faith cares nothing for bargains, First Son.’
‘She has left me nothing!’
‘She has left you alone. Make of your freedom what you will, Anomander. Do with it what you must.’
‘I would end this civil war!’
‘Then end it.’ Caladan Brood stepped forward. ‘If you ask, Lord Anomander, I will show you how.’
Anomander visibly hesitated. He glanced back at Endest, but the priest quickly looked down, and saw the grave stones crimson beneath him. He felt suddenly weak and sank down to his knees, sliding upon the tilted cairn.
He then heard, as if from a great distance, Lord Anomander speaking. ‘Caladan, if I ask this of you, that you show me how … will there be peace?’
And the Azathanai answered, ‘There will be peace.’
* * *
Arathan stood at the window of the highest tower next to the one named the Tower of Hate. The morning sun’s light swept in around him, filled him with heat.
Behind him, he heard Korya sit up on the bed. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘to have so disturbed your sleep.’
She grunted. ‘This is a first, Arathan. A young man rushing into my chambers without even a scratch at the door, but does he take note of my naked self? He does not. Instead, he rushes to the window and there he stands.’
He glanced back at her.
‘What lies beyond?’ she asked. ‘The view is nothing but a vast plain and the hovels of fallen towers. Look at us,’ she added, rising from the bed with the blankets wrapped about her slim form, ‘we dwell in a wasteland with miserable Jaghut for company, and on all sides the view is bleak. Do you not even find me attractive?’
He studied her. ‘I find you very attractive,’ he said. ‘But I do not trust you. Please, that was not meant to offend.’
‘Really? You have a lot to learn.’
He turned back to the window.
‘What so fascinates you with that view?’ she asked.
‘When Gothos woke me this morning, it was with mysterious words.’
‘Nothing new there, surely?’
Arathan shrugged. ‘The mystery is answered.’
He heard her move across the room, and then she came up alongside him. Looking out upon the plain, she gasped.
After a long moment, she said, ‘What did the Lord of Hate say to you, Arathan?’
‘“He is such a fool I fear my heart will burst.”’
‘Just that?’
Arathan nodded.
‘Haut tells me … there is a gate now.’
‘A way into the realm of the dead, yes. Hood means to take it.’
‘To wage his impossible war.’ Then she sighed. ‘Oh, Arathan, how can the heart not break at seeing this?’
They stood side by side, looking down upon a plain where thousands had gathered, in answer to Hood’s call. No, not thousands. Tens of thousands. Jaghut, Thel Akai, Dog-Runners … lost souls, grieving souls, one and all. And still more come.
Oh, Hood, did you know? Could you have even imagined such an answer?
‘And Gothos said nothing more?’
Arathan shook his head. But when I found him again, seated in his chair, I saw that he wept. Children come easy to tears. But the tears of an old man are different. They can break a child’s world like no other thing can. And this morning, I am a child again. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Nothing.’
* * *
I did not walk among them, Fisher kel Tath. Would that I had. He raised a banner of grief, and this detail waves my intent, but Lord Anomander, at this juncture, was not ready to see it. They were too far away. They were caught in their own lives. Too much and too fierce the necessities hounding them.
But think on this. Beneath such a banner, there is no end to those drawn to it, not from the weight of failure, but from the curse of surviving. Against death itself, the only legion who make of it an enemy belongs to the living.
Behold this army. It is doomed.
Still, even a blind man, in this moment, could not but see the shine in your eyes, my friend. You blaze with the poet’s heat, as you imagine this assembly, so silent and so determined, so hopeless and so … brilliant.
Let us rest for now in this tale.
Time enough, I say, for two old men to weep.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Archaeologist and anthropologist Steven Erikson’s debut fantasy, Gardens of the Moon, was shortlisted for the World Fantasy Award and introduced readers to his bestselling ten-book sequence ‘The Malazan Book of the Fallen’, which has been hailed as one of the finest works of fantasy of our time. Steve lived in the UK for a number of years – most recently in Cornwall – before returning to Canada in the summer of 2012. To find out more, visit www.malazanempire.com and www.stevenerikson.com.
Also by Steven Erikson
THIS RIVER AWAKENS
The Malazan Book of the Fallen
GARDENS OF THE MOON
DEADHOUSE GATES
MEMORIES OF ICE
HOUSE OF CHAINS
MIDNIGHT TIDES
THE BONEHUNTERS
REAPER’S GALE
TOLL THE HOUNDS
DUST OF DREAMS
THE CRIPPLED GOD
THE FIRST COLLECTED TALES OF
BAUCHELAIN AND KORBAL BROACH
For more information on Steven Erikson and his books,
see his website at www.stevenerikson.com
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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First published in Great Britain
in 2012 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Steven Erikson 2012
Maps copyright © Neil Gower 2012
Steven Erikson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781409032687
ISBNs 9780593062173 (cased)
9780593062180 (tpb)
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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