A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

converged
the end of the Path of Hands
Soletaken and D'ivers
through the gates of truth
where from the darkness
all mysteries emerged.
    The Path
Trout Sen'al'Bhok'arala
     
    They came upon the four bodies at the edge of an upthrust of roots that seemed to mark the entrance to a vast maze. The figures were contorted, limbs shattered, their dark robes twisted and stiff with dried blood.
    Recognition arrived dull and heavy in Mappo's mind, an answering of suspicions that came with little surprise. Nameless Ones . . . Priests of the Azath, if such entities can have priests. How many cold hands have guided us here? Myself . . . Icarium . . . these two twisted roots . . . journeying to Tremorlor —
    With a grunt, Icarium stepped forward, his eyes on a broken staff lying beside one of the corpses. 'I have seen those before,' he said.
    The Trell frowned at his friend. 'How? Where?'
    'In a dream.'
    'Dream?'
    The Jhag gave him a half-smile. 'Oh yes, Mappo, I have dreams.' He faced the bodies again. 'It began as all such dreams begin. I am stumbling. In pain. Yet I bear no wounds, and my weapons are clean. No, the pain is within me, as of a knowledge once gained, then lost yet again.'
    Mappo stared at his friend's back, struggling to comprehend his words.
    'I arrive,' the Jhag continued in dry tones, 'at the outskirts of a town. A Trellish town on the plain. It has been destroyed. Scars of sorcery stain the ground ... the air. Bodies rot in the streets, and Great Ravens have come to feed – their laughter is the voice of the stench.'
    'Icarium—'
    'And then a woman appears, dressed as are these here before us. A priestess. She holds a staff, from which fell power still bleeds.
    '"What have you done?" I ask her.
    '"Only what is necessary," is her soft reply. I see in her face a great fear as she looks upon me, and I am saddened by it. "Jhag, you must not wander alone."
    'Her words seem to call up terrible memories. And images, faces – companions, countless in number. As if I have rarely been alone. Men and women have walked at my side, sometimes singly, sometimes in legion. These memories fill me with grief, as if in some way I have betrayed every one of those companions.' He paused, and Mappo saw his head slowly nod. 'Indeed, I understand this now. They were all guardians, like you, Mappo. And they all failed. Were, perhaps, killed by my own hand.'
    He shook himself. 'The priestess sees what lies writ upon my face, for hers becomes its mirror. Then she nods. Her staff blossoms with sorcery ... and I wander a lifeless plain, alone. The pain is gone – where it had lodged within me, there is now nothing. And, as I feel my memories drift apart... away ... I sense I have but dreamed. And so awaken.' He turned then, offered Mappo a dreadful smile.
    Impossible. A twisting of the truth. I saw the slaughter with my own eyes. I spoke with the priestess. You have been visited in your dreams, Icarium, with fickle malice.
    Fiddler cleared his throat. 'Looks like they were guarding this entrance. Whatever found them proved too much.'
    'They are known on the Jhag Odhan,' Mappo said, 'as the Nameless Ones.'
    Icarium's eyes hardened on the Trell.
    'That cult,' Apsalar muttered, 'is supposed to be extinct.'
    The others looked at her. She shrugged. 'Dancer's knowledge.'
    Iskaral sputtered. 'Hood take their rotting souls! Presumptuous bastards one and all – how dare they make such claims?'
    'What claims?' Fiddler growled.
    The High Priest hugged himself. 'Nothing. Speak nothing of it, yes. Servants of the Azath – pah! Are we naught but pieces on a gameboard? My master scoured them from the Empire, yes. A task for the Talons, as Dancer will tell you. A necessary cleansing, a plucking of a thorn from the Emperor's side. Slaughter and desecration. Merciless. Too many vulnerable secrets – corridors of power – oh, how they resented my master's entry into Deadhouse—'
    'Iskaral!' Apsalar snapped.
    The priest ducked as if cuffed.
    Icarium faced the young woman. 'Who voiced that warning? Through your mouth – who spoke?'
    She fixed cool eyes on him. 'Possessing these memories enforces a responsibility, Icarium, just as possessing none exculpates.'
    The Jhag flinched.
    Crokus had edged forward. 'Apsalar?'
    She smiled. 'Or Cotillion? No, it is just me, Crokus. I am afraid I have grown weary of all these suspicions. As if I have no self unstained by the god who once possessed me. I was but a girl when I was taken. A fisherman's daughter.