Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7)

Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7) Page 144

Udinaas spat grit and blood, then said, ‘Ah, but now we’ve stumbled into a dark room indeed. And, Seren Pedac, you are not welcome there.’ He pushed himself upright. ‘You have been warned.’ Then he looked up, one hand settling on Kettle’s shoulder. His eyes, suddenly bright, avid, scanned Seren, Fear, and then moved up the trail, to where Silchas Ruin and Clip now stood side by side, regarding those downslope. ‘Here’s a most telling question-the kind few dare utter, by the way. Which one among us, friends, is not haunted by a death wish? Perhaps we ought to discuss mutual suicide…’

No-one spoke for a half-dozen heartbeats. Until Kettle said, ‘I don’t want to die!’

Seren saw the ex-slave’s bitter smile crumble, a sudden collapse into undeniable grief, before he turned away.

‘Trull was blind to his own truth,’ Fear said to her in a quiet voice. ‘I was there, Acquitor. I know what I saw.’

She refused to meet his eyes. Expedience. How could such a warrior proclaim his love for me? How could he even believe he knew me enough for that?

And why can I see his face as clear in my mind as if he stood here before me? 1 am haunted indeed. Oh, Udinaas, you were right. Fear is an honourable man, so honourable as to break all our hearts.

But, Fear, there is no value in honouring one who is dead.

‘Trull is dead,’ she said, stunning herself with her own brutality as she saw Fear visibly flinch. ‘He is dead.’ And so am I. There is no point in honouring the dead. I have seen too much to believe otherwise. Grieve for lost potential, the end of possibilities, the eternally silent demise of promise. Grieve for that, Fear Sengar, and you will understand, finally, how grief is but a mirror, held close to one’s own face.

And every tear springs from the choices we ourselves did not make.

When 1 grieve, Fear, I cannot even see the bloom of my own breath-what does that tell you?

They resumed walking. Silent.

A hundred paces above the group, Clip spun his chain and rings. ‘What was all that about?’ he asked.

‘You have lived in your tidy cave for too long,’ the white-skinned Tiste Andii said.

‘Oh, I get out often enough. Carousing in Bluerose-the gods know how many bastards have been brewed by my seed. Why-’

‘One day, Mortal Sword,’ Silchas Ruin interrupted, ‘you will discover what cuts deeper than any weapon of iron.’

‘Wise words from the one who smells still of barrows and rotting cobwebs.’

‘If the dead could speak, Clip, what would they tell you?’

‘Little, I expect, beyond complaints about this and that.’

‘Perhaps, then, that is all you deserve.’

‘Oh, I lack honour, do I?’

‘I am not sure what you lack,’ Silchas Ruin replied, ‘but I am certain I will comprehend before we are done.’

Rings and chain snapped taut. ‘Here they come. Shall we continue onward and upward?’

There was so much that Toe the Younger-Anaster, Firstborn of the Dead Seed, the Thrice-blinded, Chosen by the Wolf Gods, the Unlucky-did not wish to remember.

His other body for one; the body he had been born into, the first home to his soul. Detonations against Moon’s Spawn above the doomed city of Pale, fire and searing, blazing heat-oh, don’t stand there. Then that damned puppet, Hairlock, delivering oblivion, wherein his soul had found a rider, another force-a wolf, one-eyed and grieving.

How the Pannion Seer had lusted for its death. Toc recalled the cage, that spiritual prison, and the torment as his body was broken, healed, then broken yet again, a procession seemingly without end. But these memories and pain and anguish persisted as little more than abstract notions. Yet, mangled and twisted as that body had been, at least it was mine.

Strip away years, course sudden in new blood, feel these strange limbs so vulnerable to cold. To awaken in another’s flesh, to start against muscle memories, to struggle with those that were suddenly gone. Toc wondered if any other mortal soul had ever before staggered this tortured path. Stone and fire had marked him, as Tool once told him. To lose an eye delivers the gift of preternatural sight. And what of leaving a used-up body for a younger, healthier one? Surely a gift-so the wolves desired, or was it Silverfox?

But wait. A closer look at this Anaster-who lost an eye, was given a new one, then lost it yet again. Whose mind-before it was broken and flung away-was twisted with terror, haunted by a mother’s terrible love; who had lived the life of a tyrant among cannibals-oh yes, look closely at these limbs, the muscles beneath, and remember-this body has grown with the eating of human flesh. And this mouth, so eager with its words, it has tasted the succulent juices of its kin-remember that?