A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

breath.
    'It seems Rood must find someone to blame,' a voice said. Paran blinked, opened his eyes to see a black-cowled man standing above him. 'But he was premature, and for that I apologize. Evidently, some old scores need settling between you and the Hounds.' The man frowned at Rood. 'More, something has confused him about you ... Kinship? Now, how could that be?'
    'You were the one,' Paran said, as numbness spread through him, 'the one who possessed the girl—'
    The man faced the captain. 'Yes, I am Cotillion. Shadowthrone regrets leaving you outside Hood's Gates – at the cost of two Hounds. Do you realize that those precious creatures had lived for a thousand years? Do you realize that no man – mortal or Ascendant – has ever before killed a Hound?'
    Did I save their souls? Wouldn't telling that story matter? No, too much like begging. Paran glanced at Rood. Kinship? 'What do you want from me?' he asked Cotillion. 'My death? Leave me here, then, it's almost done.'
    'You should have left us to our work, Captain, since you now hate the Empress so.'
    'What you did to the girl—'
    'What I did was merciful. I used her, yes, but she knew it not. Can the same be said for you? Tell me, is knowing you're being used better than not knowing?'
    Paran said nothing.
    'I can release to the girl all those memories, if you like. The memories of what I did, what she did, when I possessed her ...'
    'No.'
    Cotillion nodded.
    Paran could feel the pain returning and it surprised him. He'd lost so much blood that he'd expected to be fading from consciousness by now. Instead, the pain was back, incessant, throbbing amid unbearable itching. He coughed. 'Now what?'
    'Now?' Cotillion seemed surprised. 'Now I start again.'
    'Another girl like her?'
    'No, the plan was flawed.'
    'You stole her life!'
    Cotillion's dark eyes hardened. 'Now she has it back. I see you still carry Chance, so the same cannot be said for you.'
    Paran turned his head, found the weapon an arm's length away. 'When my luck turns,' he muttered. And turn it did. He found he could move his left arm, and the pain in his chest seemed less insistent than it had.
    Cotillion laughed drily at Paran's words. 'It will be too late then, Captain. You gamble that the Lady continues to look kindly on you. You've surrendered whatever wisdom you may have once possessed. Such is the power of the Twins.'
    'I am healing,' Paran said.
    'So you are. As I said, Rood was premature.'
    The captain slowly, cautiously, sat up. His chain armour was in shreds, but beneath he could see the red flame of newly healed flesh. 'I – I don't understand you, Cotillion, or Shadowthrone.'
    'You are not alone in that. Now, as to Chance ...'
    Paran looked down at the weapon. 'It's yours, if you want it.'
    'Ah.' Cotillion smiled, stepping over to pick it up. 'I'd suspected a change of heart, Captain. The world is so complex, isn't it? Tell me, do you pity the ones who used you?'
    Paran closed his eyes. A terrible burden seemed to drain from him. He recalled the Finnest's grip on his soul. He glanced up at the Hound. In Rood's eyes he saw something almost... soft. 'No.'
    'Wisdom returns quickly,' Cotillion said, 'once the bond is severed. I will return you now, Captain, with this one last warning: try not to be noticed. And when next you see a Hound, run.'
    The air swirled into darkness around Paran. He blinked, saw the trees of the estate garden rising before him. I wonder, will I run from it ... or with it?
    'Captain?' It was Mallet's voice. 'Where in Hood's Name are you?'
    Paran sat up. 'Not in Hood's Name, Mallet. I'm here, in the shadows.'
    The healer scrambled to his side. 'We've got trouble everywhere. You look—'
    'Deal with it,' the captain barked, climbing to his feet.
    Mallet stared at Paran. 'Hood's Breath, you look chewed to pieces ... sir.'
    'I'm going after Lorn. If we all live through this we will meet at the Phoenix Inn. Understood?'
    Mallet blinked. 'Yes, sir.'
    Paran turned to leave.
    'Captain?'
    'What?'
    'Don't treat her kindly, sir.'
    Paran moved off.
     
    The images remained with Crokus, brutally sharp. They returned again and again even as he tried to move away from them, his thoughts driven by panic and desperation.
    Uncle Mammot was dead. In the youth's head a distant, steady voice told him that the man who had borne Mammot's face was not the man he'd known all his life, and that what had been ... claimed by the roots was something else, something horrific. The voice repeated