These steps… you walked them once.
How can you help but smile?
Rain struck her brow, stung the ragged, open gash of her wound. She halted, looked up, to see Moon's Spawn directly overhead… weeping down upon her…
… and upon the field of corpses surrounding her, and, beyond and to the right, upon thousands of kneeling T'lan Imass. The dead, the abandoned, a wash of deepening colours, as if in the rain the scene, so softly saturated, was growing more solid, more real. No longer the faded tableau of a Tiste Andü's regard. Life, drawn short, to sharpen every detail, flush every colour, to make every moment an ache.
And she could hold back no longer. Whiskeyjack. My love.
Moments later, her own tears joined the salt-laden water running down her face.
In the gate's gloom, Caladan Brood stared out, across the stone bridge, over the mangled plain to where Korlat stood halfway to the hill, surrounded by corpses and shattered K'Chain Che'Malle. Watched as her head tilted back, face slowly lifting to the grey shroud of the rain. The black mountain, fissures widening, groans issuing from the dying edifice, seemed to pause directly over her. A heart, once of stone, made mortal once more.
This image—what he now saw—he knew, with bleak certainty, would never leave him.
Silverfox had walked for what seemed a long time, heedless of direction, insensate to all that surrounded her, until distant movement caught her attention. She now stood on the barren tundra, beneath solid white overcast, and watched the approach of the Rhivi spirits.
A small band, pitifully small, less than forty individuals, insignificant in the distance, almost swallowed by the immense landscape, the sky, this damp air with its unforgiving chill that had settled into her bones like the blood of failure.
Events had occurred. Elsewhere in this nascent realm. She could sense that much—the hail, deluge of memories, born from she knew not where. And though they had struck her with the same indiscriminate randomness as they struck the ground on all sides, she had felt but the faintest hint of all that they had contained. If a gift, then a bitter one.
If a curse, then so too is life itself a curse. For there were lives within that frozen rain. Entire lives, sent down to strike the flesh of this world, to seep down, to thaw the soil with its fecundity. But it has nothing to do with me.
None of this. All that I sought to fashion… destroyed. This dreamworld was itself a memory. Ghostworld of Tellann, remembrance of my own world, from long, long ago. Remembrances, taken from the Bonecaster who was there in my refashioning, taken from the Rhivi spirits, the First Clan, taken from K'rul, from Kruppe. Taken from the slumbering land itself—Burn's own flesh.
I myself… possessed nothing. I simply stole.
To fashion a world for my mother, a world where she could be young once more, where she could live out a normal life, growing old through the normal span of seasons.
All that I stole from her, I would give back.
Bitterness filled Silverfox. It had begun with that first barrow, outside Pale. This belief in the righteousness, the efficacy, of theft. Justified by the worthiest of ends.
But ownership bereft of propriety was a lie. All that she hoarded was in turn stripped of value. Memories, dreams, lives.
Gone to dust.
The hapless band of Rhivi spirits drew closer, cautiously, hesitating.
Yes. I understand. What demands will I make of you now? How many more empty promises will I voice? I had a people for you, a people who had long since lost their own gods, their own spirits to whom they had once avowed allegiance, were less than the dust they could make of themselves. A people.
For you.
Lost.
What a lesson for four bound souls—no matchmaker, we four.
She did not know what to tell them—these modest, timid spirits.
'Bonecaster, we greet you.'
Silverfox blinked her eyes clear. 'Elder Spirit. I have—'
'Have you seen?'
She saw then, in all their faces, a kind of wonder. And frowned in reply.
'Bonecaster,' the foremost Rhivi continued, 'we have found something. Not far from here—do you know of what we speak?'
She shook her head.
'There are thrones, Bonecaster. Two thrones. In a long hut of bones and hide.'
Thrones? 'What—why? Why should there be thrones in this realm? Who—?'
The elder shrugged, then offered her a soft smile. 'They await, Bonecaster. We can feel the truth of that. Soon. Soon, will come this warren's true masters.'
'True masters!' Anger flared in Silverfox. 'This realm—it was for you! Who dares seek to usurp—'
'No,' the spirit's quiet denial cut through her, swept the breath from her lungs. 'Not for us. Bonecaster, we are not powerful enough to command such a world as this. It has grown too vast, too powerful. Do not fear—we do not wish to leave, and we will endeavour to treat with the new masters. I believe they will permit us to remain. Perhaps indeed we will find ourselves pleased to serve them.'
'No! No.' Not how it was supposed to be!
'Bonecaster, there is no need for such strong feelings within you. The shaping continues. The fulfilment of your desires is still possible—perhaps not in the manner you originally intended…'
She no longer heard him. Despair was sundering her soul. As I stole … so it has been stolen from me. There is no injustice here, no crime. Accept the truth.
Nightchill's strength of will.
Tattersail's empathy.
Bellurdan's loyalty.
A Rhivi child's wonder.
None were enough. None could of themselves—or together—absolve what has been done, the choices made, the denials voiced.
Leave them. Leave them to this, to all of this, and all that is to come. Silverfox turned away. 'Find her, then. Go.'
'Will you not walk with us? Your gift to her—'
'Go.'
My gift to her. My gift to you. They are all as one. Grand failures, defeats born from the flaws within me. I will not stand witness to my own shame—I cannot. I have not the courage for that.
I'm sorry.
She walked away.
Brief flower. Seed to stalk to deadly blossom, all in the span of a single day. Bright-burning poison, destroying all who came too close. An abomination.
The Rhivi spirits—a small band, men, women, children and elders, wearing hides and furs, their round faces burnished by sun and wind—watched Silverfox leave them. The elder who had spoken with her did not move until she slipped out of sight beneath the rim of a worn beach ridge, then he ran the back of four spread fingers across his eyes in a gesture of sad departing, and said, 'Build a fire. Prepare the ranag's shoulder blade. We have walked this land enough to see the map within.'
'Once more,' an old woman sighed.
The elder shrugged. 'The Bonecaster commanded that we find her mother.'
'She will simply flee us again. As she did the ay. Like a hare—'
'None the less. The Bonecaster has commanded. We shall lay the blade upon the flames. We shall see the map find its shape.'
'And why should it be true this time?'
The elder slowly lowered himself to press a hand down on the soft mosses. 'Why? Open your senses, doubting one. This land…' he smiled, 'now lives.'
Running. Free! Riding the soul of a god, within the muscles of a fierce, ancient beast.
Riding a soul—
—suddenly singing with joy. Mosses and lichen beneath the paws, spray of old rain water to streak the leg-fur. Smell of rich, fertile life—a world—
Running. Pain already a fading memory, vague recollections of a cage of bone, growing pressure, ever more shallow breaths.
Throwing head back, loosing a thunderous howl that trembled the sky.
Distant answers.
Which drew closer.
Shapes, grey, brown and black flashes of movement on the tundra, streaming over ridges, sweeping down into shallow valleys, broad moraines. A
y. Kin. The children of Baaljagg—of Fanderay—ghost memories that were the souls of the T'lan Ay. Baaljagg had not released them, had held to them, within herself, within her dreams—in an ageless world into which an Elder God had breathed eternal life.
Ay.
Their god had challenged the heavens with his bestial voice, and now they came to him.
And… another.
Togg slowed, head lifting—the ay all around him now, clan after clan, long-legged tundra wolves, swirling—
She was here. She had come.
She had found him.
Running. Coming nearer. Shoulder to shoulder with Baaljagg, with the ay who had carried her wounded, lost soul for so long. Baaljagg, coming to rejoin her kin—the kin of her dreams.
Emotions. Beyond measure—
Then, Fanderay was padding at his side.
Their beast-minds touched. A moment. Nothing else. Nothing more was needed.
Together, shoulders brushing—
Two ancient wolves. God and goddess.
He looked upon them, without knowing who he, himself, was; nor even where he might be, that he might so witness this reunion. Looked, and, for these two, knew nothing but gentle joy.
Running.
Ahead awaited their thrones.
The Mhybe's head snapped up, her body stiffening, writhing in an attempt to break his grip. Small as he was, his strength defeated her.
'Wolves, lass. We've nothing to fear.'
Nothing to fear. Lies. They have hunted me. Again and again. Pursuing me across this empty land. And now, listen, they come once more. And this Daru who drags me, he has not even so much as a knife.
'Something ahead,' Kruppe gasped, shifting his awkward embrace as he staggered under her weight. 'Easier,' he panted, 'when you were but a hag! Now, but you found the will, you could throw me down—nay! You could carry me,'
Will. Need I only find the will? To break from this grip? To flee?
Flee where?
'Lass, hear Kruppe's words! He begs you! This—this world—Kruppe's dream no longer! Do you understand? It must pass from me. It must be passed on!'
They were stumbling up a gentle slope.
Wolves howled behind them, fast approaching.
Leave me.
'Dearest Mhybe, so aptly named! You are the vessel in truth, now! Within you—take this dream from me. Allow it to fill your spirit. Kruppe must pass it on to you—do you understand?'
Will.
She twisted suddenly, threw an elbow into Kruppe's stomach. He gasped, doubled over. She pulled herself free as he fell, leapt to her feet—
Behind them, tens of thousands of wolves. Charging towards her. And, leading them, two gigantic beasts that radiated blinding power.
The Mhybe cried out, spun.
A shallow depression before her. A long, low hut of arched bones, hides, bound with hemp rope, the entrance yawning wide.
And, standing in a clump before the hut, a band of Rhivi.
The Mhybe staggered towards them.
Wolves were suddenly all around, flowing in a wild, chaotic circle around the hut. Ignoring the Rhivi. Ignoring her.
Groaning, Kruppe levered himself, after a couple of tries, to his feet. Weaving, he joined her. She stared at him without comprehension.
He drew a faded handkerchief from his sleeve and daubed the sweat from his brow. 'Any lower with that elbow, dear…'
'What? What is happening?'
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.
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