The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (431 page)

‘Well,' L'oric muttered, ‘actually, it would be Dera'tin'jeragoth.'

Osric studied his son. ‘So like your mother,' he sighed. ‘And is it any wonder we could not stand each other's company? The third day, always by the third day.
We could make a lifetime of those three days. Exaltation, then comfort, then mutual contempt. One, two, three.'

L'oric looked away. ‘And for your only son?'

Osric grunted. ‘More like three bells.'

Climbing to his feet, L'oric brushed dust from his hands. ‘Very well. I may require your help in opening the path back to Raraku. But you might wish to know something of the Liosan and Kurald Thyrllan. Your people and their realm have lost their protector. They pray for your return, Father.'

‘What of your familiar?'

‘Slain. By T'lan Imass.'

‘So,' Osric said, ‘find yourself another.'

L'oric flinched, then scowled. ‘It's not as easy as that! In any case, do you hold no sense of responsibility for the Liosan? They worship you, dammit!'

‘The Liosan worship themselves, L'oric. I happen to be a convenient figure-head. Kurald Thyrllan may appear vulnerable, but it isn't.'

‘And what if these Deragoth are servants of Darkness in truth? Do you still make the same claim, Father?'

He was silent, then strode towards the gaping entranceway. ‘It's all her fault,' he muttered as he passed.

L'oric followed his father outside. ‘This…observation tower. Is it Jaghut?'

‘Yes.'

‘So, where are they?'

‘West. South. East. But not here—I've seen none.'

‘You don't know where they are, do you?'

‘They are not in this memory, L'oric. That is that. Now, stay back.'

The High Mage remained near the tower, watching his father veer into his draconic form. The air suddenly redolent with a sweet, spicy aroma, a blurring of shape before L'oric's eyes. Like Anomander Rake, Osric was more dragon than anything else. They were kin in blood, if not in personality.
I wish I could understand this man, this father of mine. Queen take me, I wish I could even like him.
He strode forward.

The dragon lifted one forelimb, talons opening.

L'oric frowned. ‘I would rather ride your shoulders, Father—'

But the reptilian hand reached out and closed about him.

He resolved to suffer the indignity in silence.

 

Osric flew westward, following the coastline. Before too long forest appeared, and the land reached around northward. The air whipping between the dragon's scaled fingers grew cold, then icy. The ground far below began climbing, the forests flanking mountain sides shifting into conifers. Then L'oric saw snow, reaching like frozen rivers in crevasses and chasms.

He could recall no mountains from the future to match this ancient scene.
Perhaps this memory, like so many others, is flawed.

Osric began to descend—and L'oric suddenly saw a vast white emptiness, as if
the mountain rearing before them had been cut neatly in half. They were approaching that edge.

A vaguely level, snow-crusted stretch was the dragon's destination. Its southern side was marked by a sheer cliff. To the north…opaque oblivion.

Wings pounding, raising clouds of powdery white, Osric hovered for a moment, then released L'oric.

The High Mage landed in waist-deep snow. Cursing, he kicked his way onto firmer footing, as the enormous dragon settled with a shuddering crunch off to one side.

Osric quickly sembled into Liosan form, the wind whipping at his hair, and strode over.

There were…things near the faded edge of the memory. Some of them moving about feebly. Osric stomped through the deep snow towards them, speaking as he went. ‘Creatures stumble out. You will find such all along the verge. Most of them quickly die, but some linger.'

‘What are they?'

‘Demons, mostly.'

Osric changed direction slightly, closing on one such creature, from which steam was rising. Its four limbs were moving, claws scraping through the slush surrounding it.

Father and son halted before it.

Dog-sized and reptilian, with four hands, similar to an ape's. A wide, flat head with a broad mouth, two slits for nostrils, and four liquid, slightly protruding eyes in a diamond pattern, the pupils vertical and, in the harsh glare of the snow and sky, surprisingly open.

‘This one might suit Kurald Thyrllan,' Osric said.

‘What kind of demon is it?' L'oric asked, staring down at the creature.

‘I have no idea,' Osric replied. ‘Reach out to it. See if it is amenable.'

‘Assuming it has any mind at all,' L'oric muttered, crouching down.

Can you hear me? Can you comprehend?

The four eyes blinked up at him. And it replied.
‘Sorcerer. Declaration. Recognition. We were told you'd come, but so soon? Rhetorical.'

I am not from this place
, L'oric explained.
You are dying, I think.

‘Is that what this is? Bemused.'

I would offer you an alternative. Have you a name?

‘A name? You require that. Observation. Of course. Comprehension. A partnership, a binding of spirits. Power from you, power from me. In exchange for my life. Uneven bargain. Position devoid of clout.'

No, I will save you none the less. We will return to my world…to a warmer place.

‘Warmth? Thinking. Ah, air that does not steal my strength. Considering. Save me, Sorcerer, and then we will talk more of this alliance.'

L'oric nodded. ‘Very well.'

‘It's done?' Osric asked.

His son straightened. ‘No, but it comes with us.'

‘Without the binding, you will have no control over the demon, L'oric. It could well turn on you as soon as you return to Raraku. Best we resume our search, find a creature more tractable.'

‘No. I will risk this one.'

Osric shrugged. ‘As you like, then. We must proceed now to the lake, where you first appeared.'

L'oric watched his father walk away, then halt and veer once more into his dragon form.

‘Eleint!'
the demon cried in the High Mage's mind.
‘Wonder. You have an Eleint for a companion!'

My father.

‘Your father! Excited delight! Eager. I am named Greyfrog, born of Mirepool's Clutch in the Twentieth Season of Darkness. Proudly. I have fathered thirty-one clutches of my own—'

And how, Greyfrog, did you come here?

‘Sudden moroseness. One hop too far.'

The dragon approached.

 

Greyfrog dragged itself onto the warm sand. L'oric turned about, but the gate was already closing. So, he had found his father, and the parting had been as blunt as the meeting. Not precisely indifference. More like…distraction. Osric's interest was with Osric. His own pursuits.

Only now did a thousand more questions rise in L'oric's thoughts, questions he should have asked.

‘Regret?'

L'oric glanced down at the demon. ‘Recovering, Greyfrog? I am named L'oric.

Shall we now discuss our partnership?'

‘I smell raw meat. I am hungry. Eat. Then talk. Firm.'

‘As you wish. As for raw meat…I will find you something that is appropriate. There are rules, regarding what you can and cannot kill.'

‘Explain them to me. Cautious. Not wishing to offend. But hungry.'

‘I shall…'

 

Vengeance had been her lifeblood for so long, and now, within days, she would come face to face with her sister, to play out the game's end run. A vicious game, but a game none the less. Sha'ik knew that virtually every conceivable advantage lay with her. Tavore's legions were green, the territory was Sha'ik's own, her Army of the Apocalypse were veterans of the rebellion and numerically superior. The Whirlwind Goddess drew power from an Elder Warren—she now realized—perhaps not pure but either immune or resistant to the effects of otataral. Tavore's mages amounted to two Wickan warlocks both broken of spirit, whilst Sha'ik's cadre included four High Mages and a score of shamans, witches and sorcerers, including Fayelle and Henaras. In all, defeat seemed impossible.

And yet Sha'ik was terrified.

She sat alone in the central chamber of the vast, multi-roomed tent that was her palace. The braziers near the throne were slowly dimming, shadows encroaching on all sides. She wanted to run. The game was too hard, too fraught. Its final promise was cold—colder than she had ever imagined.
Vengeance is a wasted emotion, yet I have let it consume me. I gave it like a gift to the goddess.

Fragments of clarity—they were diminishing, withering like flowers in winter—as the hold of the Whirlwind Goddess tightened on her soul.
My sister traded me for the faith of the Empress, to convince Laseen of Tavore's own loyalty. All to serve her ambition. And her reward was the position of Adjunct. Such are the facts, the cold truths. And I, in turn, have traded my freedom for the power of the Whirlwind Goddess, so that I can deliver just vengeance against my sister.

Are we, then, so different?

Fragments of clarity, but they led nowhere. She could ask questions, yet seemed incapable of seeking answers. She could make statements, but they seemed strangely hollow, devoid of significance. She was being kept from thinking.

Why?

Another question she knew she would not answer, would not, even, make an effort to answer.
The goddess doesn't want me to think.
Well, at least that was a recognition of sorts.

She sensed the approach of someone, and issued a silent command to her guards—Mathok's chosen warriors—to permit the visitor to pass within. The curtains covering the entrance to the chamber parted.

‘A late night for an ancient one such as you, Bidithal,' Sha'ik said. ‘You should be resting, in preparation for the battle.'

‘There are many battles, Chosen One, and some have already begun.' He leaned heavily on his staff, looking around with a slight smile on his wrinkled lips. ‘The coals are fading,' he murmured.

‘I would have thought the growing shadows would please you.'

His smile tightened, then he shrugged. ‘They are not mine, Chosen One.'

‘Aren't they?'

The smile grew more strained still. ‘I was never a priest of Meanas.'

‘No, here it was Rashan, ghost-child of Kurald Galain…yet the warren it claimed was, none the less, Shadow. We are both well aware that the distinctions diminish the closer one delves into the mysteries of the most ancient triumvirate. Shadow, after all, was born of the clash between Light and Dark. And Meanas is, in essence, drawn from the warrens of Thyrllan and Galain, Thyr and Rashan. It is, if you will, a hybrid discipline.'

‘Most sorcerous arts available to mortal humans are, Chosen One. I do not, I am afraid, comprehend the point you wish to make.'

She shrugged. ‘Only that you send your shadow servants here to spy on me, Bidithal. What is it you hope to witness? I am as you see me.'

He spread his hands, staff resting against one shoulder. ‘Perhaps not spies, then, but protectors.'

‘And I am in such dire need of protection, Bidithal? Are your fears…specific? Is this what you have come to tell me?'

‘I am close to discovering the precise nature of that threat, Chosen One. Soon, I will be able to deliver my revelations. My present concerns, however, are with High Mage L'oric and, perhaps, Ghost Hands.'

‘Surely you do not suspect either of them of being part of the conspiracy.'

‘No, but I am coming to believe that other forces are at play here. We are at the heart of a convergence, Chosen One, and not just between us and the Malazans.'

‘Indeed.'

‘Ghost Hands is not as he once was. He is a priest once more.'

Sha'ik's brows lifted in frank disbelief. ‘Fener is gone, Bidithal—'

‘Not Fener. But consider this. The god of war has been dethroned. And another has risen in its place, as necessity demanded. The Tiger of Summer, who was once the First Hero, Treach. A Soletaken of the First Empire…now a god. His need will be great, Chosen One, for mortal champions and avatars, to aid him in establishing the role he would assume. A Mortal Sword, a Shield Anvil, a Destriant—all of the ancient titles…and the powers the god invests in them.'

‘Ghost Hands would never accept a god other than Fener,' Sha'ik asserted. ‘Nor, I imagine, would a god be foolish enough to embrace him in turn. You know little of his past, Bidithal. He is not a pious man. He has committed…crimes—'

‘None the less, Chosen One. The Tiger of Summer has made his choice.'

‘As what?'

Bidithal shrugged. ‘What else could he be but Destriant.'

‘What proof have you of this extraordinary transformation?'

‘He hides well…but not well enough, Chosen One.'

Sha'ik was silent for a long moment, then she replied with a shrug of her own. ‘Destriant to the new god of war. Why wouldn't he be here? We are at war, after all. I will think of this…development, Bidithal. At the moment, however, I cannot—assuming it is true—see its relevance.'

‘Perhaps, Chosen One, the most significant relevance is also the simplest one: Ghost Hands is not the broken, useless man he once was. And, given his…ambivalence to our cause, he presents us with a potential threat—'

‘I think not,' Sha'ik said. ‘But, as I said, I will give it some thought. Now, your vast web of suspicions has snared L'oric as well? Why?'

‘He has been more elusive of late than is usual, Chosen One. His efforts to disguise his comings and goings have become somewhat extreme.'

‘Perhaps he grows weary of your incessant spying, Bidithal.'