Memories of Ice

by Steven Erikson

  Back.

  Because. I was the Shield Anvil. But now…

  I am done.

  And beneath the Moon's torrential rain, he died.

  On the vast, reborn tundra with its sweet breath of spring, Silverfox looked up.

  Standing before her were two T'lan Imass. One speared through with swords. The other so badly battered that it could barely stand.

  Beyond them, silent, motionless, the T'lan Ay.

  Silverfox made to turn away.

  'No. You shall not.'

  Silverfox glared back at the battered warrior who'd spoken. 'You dare torment me?' she hissed.

  The T'lan Imass seemed to rock in the face of her vehemence, then steadied. 'I am Onos T'oolan, First Sword. You are the Summoner. You shall listen to me.'

  Silverfox said nothing for a long moment, then she nodded. 'Very well. Speak.'

  'Free the T'lan Ay.'

  'They have denied me—'

  'They are here before you, now. They have come. Their spirits await them. They would be mortal once more, in this world that you have created. Mortal, no longer lost within dreams, Summoner. Mortal. Gift them. Now.'

  Gift them… 'And this is what they wish?'

  'Yes. Reach to them, and you will know the truth of that.' No, no more pain. She raised her arms, drew on the power of Tellann, closed her eyes—for too long have they known chains. For too long have these creatures known the burden of loyalty—

  —and released them of the Ritual. An effort demanding so little of herself, she was left feeling appalled. So easy, then, to release. To make free once more.

  She opened her eyes. The undead wolves were gone. Not into oblivion, however. Their souls had been reunited, she knew, with flesh and bone. Extinct no longer. Not here, within this realm and its wolf gods. She was a Bonecaster, after all. Such gifts were hers to give. No, they are not gifts. They are what I was fashioned to do, after all. My purpose. My sole purpose.

  Onos T'oolan's bones creaked as he slowly looked around, scanning the now empty barrens surrounding them. His shoulders seemed to slump. 'Summoner. Thank you. The ancient wrong is righted.' Silverfox studied the First Sword. 'What else do you wish of me?'

  'She who stands beside me is Lanas Tog. She will lead you back to the T'lan Imass. Words must be exchanged.'

  'Very well.'

  Onos T'oolan made no move. Silverfox frowned. 'What are we waiting for, then?' He was motionless a moment longer, then he reached up and slowly drew his flint sword. 'For me,' he rasped, raising the sword—then releasing it, to fall to the ground at his feet. She frowned down at the weapon, wondering at the significance of the gesture—from the warrior who was called the First Sword. Slowly, as comprehension filled her, her eyes widened. What, after all, I was fashioned to do…

  'The time has come.'

  Coll started. He had been dozing. 'What? What time?' Murillio rushed over to the Mhybe.

  The Knight of Death continued, 'She is ready for interment. My Lord has avowed his eternal protection.'

  The Elder God, K'rul, was studying the huge, undead warrior. 'I remain bemused. No—astonished. Since when has Hood become a generous god?'

  The Knight slowly faced K'rul. 'My Lord is ever generous.'

  'She's still alive,' Murillio pronounced, straightening to place himself between the Mhybe and the Knight of Death. 'The time has not come.'

  'This is not a burial,' K'rul said to him. 'The Mhybe now sleeps, and will sleep for ever more. She sleeps, to dream. And within her dream, Murillio, lives an entire world.'

  'Like Burn?' Coll asked.

  The Elder God smiled in answer.

  'Wait a moment!' Murillio snapped. 'Just how many sleeping old women are there?'

  'She must be laid to rest,' the Knight of Death pronounced.

  Coll stepped forward, settled a hand on Murillio's shoulder. 'Come on, let's make sure she's comfortable down there—furs, blankets…'

  Murillio seemed to shiver under Coll's hand. 'After all this?' He wiped at his eyes. 'We just… leave her? Here, in a tomb?'

  'Help me with the bedding, my friend,' Coll said.

  'There is no need,' the Knight said. 'She will feel nothing.'

  'That's not the point,' Coll sighed. He was about to say something more, then he saw that Rath'Fanderay and Rath'Togg had both removed their masks. Pallid, wrinkled faces, eyes closed, streaming with tears. 'What's wrong with them?' he demanded.

  'Their gods have finally found each other, Coll. Within the Mhybe's realm, home now to the Beast Thrones. You do not witness sorrow, but joy.'

  After a moment, Coll grunted. 'Let's get to work, Murillio. Then we can go home.'

  'I still want to know about these old women dreaming up worlds like this!'

  The warren flared, the three figures emerging from it spilling onto dusty grey earth in a tangle.

  Paran rolled clear of Quick Ben and the Seer as sorcery roiled around the two grappling men. As the captain drew his sword, he heard the Jaghut shriek. Black webs raced, wrapped tight about the thrashing Seer.

  Gasping, Quick Ben kicked himself away, the Finnest in his hands.

  Crouched on the Jaghut's chest was a tiny figure of twigs and knotted grasses, cackling with glee.

  'Who in Hood's name—'

  A massive black shape exploded from the portal with a hissing snarl. Paran cried out, wheeled, sword swinging in a desperate horizontal slash.

  Which bit muscle then bone.

  Something—a paw—hammered Paran's chest, throwing him from his feet.

  'Stop—you damned cat!'

  Quick Ben's frantic shout was punctuated by a sorcerous detonation that made the panther scream in pain.

  'On your feet, Paran!' the wizard gasped. 'I've nothing left.'

  On my feet? Gods, I feel broken into a thousand pieces, and the man wants me on my feet. Somehow, he pushed himself upright, tottering as he faced the beast once more.

  It crouched six paces away, tail thrashing, coal-lit eyes fixed on his own. It bared its fangs in a silent snarl.

  From somewhere within the captain emerged an answering growl. Deeper than a human throat could manage. A brutal strength flowed into him, stealing from him all awareness of his own body—except that now, he realized, he was—somehow—on eye-level with the gigantic panther.

  He heard Quick Ben's ragged whisper behind him: 'Abyss below!'

  The cat, ears laid back flat, was clearly hesitating.

  What in Hood's name is it seeing?

  'Bonecaster!' Quick Ben snapped. 'Hold. Look around you—see where we are! We're not your enemies—we seek what you seek. Here. Right now.'

  The panther drew back another step, and Paran saw it tensing for a charge.

  'Vengeance is not enough!' the wizard cried.

  The cat flinched. A moment later, Paran saw its muscles relax, then the entire beast blurred, changed shape—and a small, dark, heavy-boned woman stood before them. On her right shoulder was a deep gash, the blood freely flowing down to paint her arm, dripping from her fingertips to the dusty ground. Black, extraordinarily beautiful eyes regarded him.

  Paran slowly sighed, felt something subside within him—and he could sense his own body once more, limbs trembling, sword-grip slick in his hand.

  'Who are you?' she asked.

  The captain shrugged.

  Her gaze dismissed him, lifted past him. 'Morn,' she said.

  Paran slowly turned.

  He felt the rent like a physical blow against his heart. A welt in the air, almost within reach of the ragged roof of an abandoned tower. A wound, bleeding pain—such pain… an eternity—gods below, there is a soul within it. A child. Trapped. Sealing the wound. I remember that child—the child of my dreams…

  Quick Ben had regained his feet, stood looking down on the magically imprisoned Seer, the sticksnare crouched on the man's chest.

  The Jaghut, unhuman eyes filled with terror, stared back up at him.

  The wizard smiled. 'You and I, Seer. We
are going to come to an arrangement.' He still held the Finnest and now slowly raised it. 'The Matron's power… resides within this egg. Correct? A power unable to sense itself, yet alive none the less. Torn from the body that once housed it, presumably it feels no pain. It simply exists, here in this Finnest, for anyone to use it. Anyone at all.'

  'No,' the Jaghut rasped, eyes widening with fear. 'The Finnest is aspected to me. To me alone. You foolish—'

  'Enough of the insults, Seer. Do you want to hear my proposal? Or will Paran and I simply step back and leave you to this Bonecaster's tender talons?'

  The dark-haired woman approached them. 'What do you plan, Wizard?'

  Quick Ben glanced back at her. 'An arrangement, Bonecaster, where everyone wins.'

  She sneered. 'No-one wins. Ever. Leave him to me now.'

  'The T'lan Vow is that important to you? I think not. You are flesh and blood—you did not participate in that ritual.'

  'I am not bound to any vow,' she replied. 'I act now for my brother.'

  'Your brother?' Paran asked, sheathing his sword and joining them.

  'Onos T'oolan. Who knew a mortal, and called him kin.'

  'I imagine such an honour is… rare,' Paran acknowledged, 'but what has that to do with the Seer?'

  She looked down at the bound Jaghut. 'To answer the death of Toc the Younger, brother to Onos T'oolan, I must kill you, Seer.'

  Paran stared, disbelieving the name he had just heard.

  The Jaghut's response was a grim unsheathing of his lower tusks. Then he said, 'You should have killed us the first time. Yes, I remember you. Your lies!'

  'Toc the Younger?' Quick Ben asked. 'From Onearm's Host? But—'

  'He was lost,' Paran said. 'Thrown into a chaotic warren by Hairlock.'

  The wizard was scowling. 'To land in the Seer's lap? That hardly seems—'

  'He appeared here,' the woman cut in. 'At Morn. The Seer interrupted his journey north to rejoin his people, a journey that, for a time, he shared with Onos T'oolan. The Seer tortured the mortal, destroyed him.'

  'Toc's dead?' Paran asked, his mind feeling rocked in every direction.

  'I saw his body, yes. And now, I will deliver unto this Jaghut pain to match.'

  'Have you not already done so?' the Jaghut hissed.

  The Bonecaster's face tightened.

  'Wait,' Quick Ben said, looking now to both her and Paran. 'Listen to me. Please. I knew Toc as well, and I grieve for the loss. But it changes nothing, not here, not now.' He turned once more back to the Seer. 'She is still in there, you know.'

  The Jaghut flinched, eyes widening.

  'Didn't you understand that? The Matron could only take one. You.'

  'No—'

  'Your sister is still there. Her soul seals that wound. It's the way warrens heal themselves, to keep from bleeding into each other. The first time, it was the Matron—the K'Chain Che'Malle. Time's come, Seer, to send her back. Hood knows what that Finnest will do—once you release it, once you send it into that rent—'

  The Jaghut managed a ghastly smile. 'To free my sister? To what? You fool. You blind, stupid fool. Ask the Bonecaster—how long would we survive in this world? The T'lan Imass will hunt us in earnest now. I free my sister, to what? A short life, filled with flight—I remember, mortal. I remember! Running. Never enough sleep. Mother, carrying us, slipping in the mud—' He shifted his head a fraction, 'And oh how I remember you, Bonecaster! You sent us into that wound—you—'

  'I was mistaken,' the woman said. 'I thought—I believed—it was a portal into Omtose Phellack.'

  'Liar! You may be flesh and blood, but in your hatred for the Jaghut you are no different from your undead kin. No, you'd discovered a more horrible fate for us.'

  'No. I believed I was saving you.'

  'And you never knew the truth? You never realized?'

  Paran watched the woman's expression close, her eyes flattening. 'I saw no way of undoing what I had done.'

  'Coward!' the Jaghut shrieked.

  'Enough of all this,' Quick Ben cut in. 'We can fix it now. Return the Matron to the wound, Seer. Retrieve your sister.'

  'Why? Why should I? To see us both cut down by the T'lan Imass?'

  'He is right,' the woman said. 'Even so, Jaghut, better that than an eternity of pain, such as your sister is now suffering.'

  'I need only wait. One day,' the Seer hissed, 'some fool will come upon this site, will probe, will reach into the portal—'

  'And will make the exchange? Freeing your sister.'

  'Yes! Beyond the sight or knowledge of the T'lan Imass! Beyond—'

  'A small child,' Quick Ben said. 'Alone. In a wasteland. I have a better idea.'

  The Jaghut bared his teeth in a silent snarl.

  The wizard slowly crouched down beside the Seer. 'Omtose Phellack. Your warren is under siege, isn't it? The T'lan Imass long ago breached it. And now, whenever it is unveiled, they know about it. They know where, and they come…'

  The Jaghut simply glared.

  Quick Ben sighed. 'The thing is, Seer, I have found a place for it. A place that can remain… hidden. Beyond the ability of the T'lan Imass to detect. Omtose Phellack can survive, Seer, in its fullest power. Survive, and heal.'

  'Lies.'

  The sticksnare on his chest spoke, 'Listen to this wizard, Jaghut. He offers a mercy you do not deserve.'

  Paran cleared his throat, said, 'Seer. Were you aware that you have been manipulated? Your power—it wasn't Omtose Phellack, was it?'

  'I used,' the Jaghut grated, 'what I could find.'

  'The Warren of Chaos, yes. Wherein is trapped a wounded god. The Chained One, a creature of immense power, a creature in pain, who seeks only the destruction of this world, of every warren—including Omtose Phellack. He is indifferent to your desires, Seer, and he has been using you. Worse, the venom of his soul—he's been speaking… through you. Thriving on pain and suffering… through you. Since when were Jaghut interested only in destruction? Not even the Tyrants ruled with such cruelty as you have. Tell me, Seer, do you still feel as twisted inside? Do you still delight in thoughts of delivering pain?'

  The Jaghut was silent for a long moment.

  Gods, Quick Ben, I hope you're right. I hope the madness of this Seer was not his own. That it's now gone—torn away—

  'I feel,' the Jaghut rasped, 'empty. Still, why should I believe you?'

  Paran studied the Jaghut, then said, 'Release him, Quick.'

  'Now, wait—'

  'Let him go. You can't negotiate with a prisoner and expect him to believe a thing you're saying. Seer, the place Quick Ben has in mind no-one—no-one—will be able to manipulate you there. And perhaps more importantly, you will possess the opportunity to make the Chained One pay for his temerity. And, finally, you will have a sister—still a child—who will need to heal. Seer, she will need you.'

  'You hold too much to this Jaghut's still retaining a shred of honour, integrity and the capacity for compassion,' the Bonecaster pronounced. 'With all that he has done—whether by his will or not—he will twist that child, as he himself has been twisted.'

  Paran shrugged. 'Fortunate for that child, then, that she and her brother will not be entirely alone.'

  The Seer's eyes narrowed. 'Not alone?'

  'Free him, Quick Ben.'

  The wizard sighed, then spoke to the sticksnare crouching on the Jaghut's chest. 'Let him go, Talamandas.'

  'We'll likely regret it,' it replied, then clambered off. The sorcerous web flickered, then vanished.

  The Seer scrambled to his feet. Then hesitated, eyes on the Finnest in Quick Ben's hands.

  'This other place,' he finally whispered, looking to Paran, 'is it far?'

  The Jaghut child, a girl of but a handful of years, wandered from the wounded warren as if lost, her small hands folded together on her lap in a manner she must have learned from her long-dead mother. A small detail, but it granted her a heart-breaking dignity that started tears in Paran's eyes.

&n
bsp; 'What will she remember?' Kilava whispered.

  'Hopefully, nothing,' Quick Ben replied. 'Talamandas and I will, uh, work on that.'

  A soft sound from the Seer drew Paran's attention. The Jaghut stood, trembling, unhuman eyes fixed on the approaching child—who had now seen them, yet was clearly seeking someone else, her steps slowing.

  'Go to her,' Paran told the Seer.

  'She remembers… a brother—'

  'So now she finds an uncle.'

  Still he hesitated. 'We Jaghut are not… not known for compassion among our blood-tied, our kin—'

  Paran grimaced. 'And we humans are? You're not the only one who finds such things a struggle. There's much you have to repair, Pannion, starting with what is within yourself, with what you've done. In that, let the child—your sister—be your guide. Go, damn you—you need each other.'

  He staggered forward, then hesitated once more and swung back to meet Paran's eyes. 'Human, what I have done—to your friend, to Toc the Younger—I now regret.' His gaze shifted to Kilava. 'You said you have kin, Bonecaster. A brother.'

  She shook her head, as if anticipating his question. 'He is T'lan Imass. Of the Ritual.'

  'It seems, then, that, like me, you have a great distance to travel.'

  She cocked her head. 'Travel?'

  'This path to redemption, Bonecaster. Know that I cannot forgive you. Not yet.'

  'Nor I you.'

  He nodded. 'We both have learning ahead of us.' With that, he turned once more. Back straightening, he strode to his sister.

  She knew her own kind, and had not yet been shorn of her love, her need, for kin. And, before Pannion began lifting his hands towards her, she opened her arms to him.

  The vast cavern's rippled, curved walls streamed watery mud. Paran stared up at the nearest diamond-studded giant with its massive arms raised to the ceiling. It seemed to be dissolving before his eyes. The infection in Burn's flesh was all too apparent as inflamed streaks, radiating away from a place almost directly above them.

  The giant was not alone—the entire length of the cavern, in each direction for as far as the eye could see, revealed more of the huge, childlike servants. If they were aware of the arrival of newcomers, they showed no sign.

  'She sleeps,' Kilava murmured, 'to dream.'