A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

Tragedy
Holy Book prayer ( Canon of Kassal)
     
    The puncture wound in Lorn's left shoulder was not deep. Without magical aid, however, the risk of infection was a cause for concern. She returned to the camp to find Tool still positioned where he had been since dawn.
    Ignoring the Imass, the Adjunct found her collection of herbs in her saddle bag. She sat down and leaned back against the saddle, then set to treating the wound.
    It had been a foolish, unnecessary attack. Too many things had happened recently, too many ideas, too much of the woman Lorn interfering with her functions and duties as Adjunct to the Empress. She was making mistakes that she would not have made a year ago.
    Tool had given her more to think about than she could handle. The words the Imass had thrown at her feet, as if in afterthought, had reached into and grasped something deep within her and now would not let go. Emotions seeped into the Adjunct, clouding the world around her. She'd abandoned sorrow long ago, along with regret. Compassion was anathema to the Adjunct. Yet now all these feelings swept through her in tides pulling her every which way. She found herself clinging to the title of Adjunct, and what it meant, as if it was a lifeline to sanity, to stability and control.
    She completed cleaning the wound as best she could, then prepared a poultice. Control. The word rebounded in her thoughts, clipped, hard and sure. What was the heart of Empire, if not control? What shaped Empress Laseen's every act, her every thought? And what had been at the heart of the very first Empire – the great wars that shaped the T'lan Imass to this day?
    She sighed and looked down at the dirt beneath her. But that was no more than we all sought, she told herself. From a young girl bringing twine home to her father, to the immortal power that had seized her for its own use. Through the gamut of life we struggled for control, for a means to fashion the world around us, an eternal, hopeless hunt for the privilege of being able to predict the shape of our lives.
    The Imass, and his three-hundred-thousand-year-old words, had given to Lorn a sense of futility. And it worked on her, it threatened to overwhelm her.
    She'd given the boy his life, surprising both him and herself. Lorn smiled ruefully. Prediction had become a privilege now lost to her. Never mind the outside world, she could not even guess her own actions, or the course of her thoughts.
    Was this the true nature of emotion? she wondered. The great defier of logic, of control – the whims of being human. What lay ahead?
    'Adjunct.'
    Startled, Lorn looked up to see Tool standing over her. Frost covered the warrior, steaming in the heat.
    'You have been wounded.'
    'A skirmish,' she said gruffly, almost embarrassed. 'It's over now.' She pressed the poultice against the wound then wrapped cloth around her shoulder. It was an awkward effort, since she could use only one hand.
    Tool knelt beside her. 'I will assist you, Adjunct.'
    Surprised, Lorn studied the warrior's death's face. But his next words wiped out any thought of the Imass revealing compassion.
    'We have little time, Adjunct. The opening awaits us.'
    An expressionless mask settled over her face. She jerked a nod as Tool finished, his withered, shredded hands – the nails blunt, polished brown and curved – deftly tying a knot with the strips of cloth. 'Help me to my feet,' she commanded.
    The marker had been shattered, she saw, as the Imass guided her forward. Apart from this, however, all looked unchanged. 'Where is this opening?' she asked.
    Tool halted before the broken stones. 'I will lead, Adjunct. Follow closely behind me. When we are within the tomb, unsheath your sword. The deadening effect will be minimal, yet it will slow the Jaghut's return to consciousness. Enough for us to complete our efforts.'
    Lorn drew a deep breath. She shrugged off her doubts. There was no turning back now. Had there ever been such a chance? The question, she realized, was a moot one: the course had been chosen for her. 'Very well,' she said. 'Lead on, Tool.'
    The Imass spread out his arms to the sides. The hillside before them blurred, as if a curtain of wind-blown sand rose before it. A churning wind roiled through this strange mist. Tool stepped forward.
    Following, Lorn at first recoiled at the stench that wafted into her, a stench of air poisoned by centuries of pulsing sorcery, countless wards dispersed by Tool's Tellann powers. She pushed ahead, her