A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

eyes?'
    She smiled. 'No. Only one – the one you no longer have, mortal. I would know what the Elder God has planned ... for us.'
    He shook his head. 'I don't know. I can't recall ever meeting him, alas. Not even a whisper in my ear.'
    'Brother Onos, who is this mortal?'
    'I have named him Aral Fayle, sister.'
    'And you have given him weapons of stone.'
    'I have. Unintended.'
    'By you, perhaps ...'
    'I serve no god,' Tool growled.
    Her eyes flashed. 'And I do? These steps are not our own, Onos! Who would dare manipulate us? An Imass Bonecaster and the First Sword of the T'lan Imass – prodded this way and that. He risks our wrath—'
    'Enough,' Tool sighed. 'You and I are not of a kind, sister. We have never walked in step. I travel to the Second Gathering.'
    Her sneer was decidedly unpleasant. 'Think you I did not hear the summons?'
    'Made by whom? Do you know, Kilava?'
    'No, nor do I care. I shall not attend.'
    Tool cocked his head. 'Then why are you here?'
    'That is my business.'
    She seeks . . . redress. The realization flooded Toc's mind, and he knew that the knowledge was not his, but an Elder God's. Who now spoke directly, in a voice that trickled like sand into the Malazan's thoughts. To right an old wrong, heal an old scar. You shall cross paths again. It is, however, of little consequence. It is the final meeting that concerns me, and that will be years away in all likelihood. Ah, but I reveal unworthy impatience. Mortal, the children of the Pannion Seer are suffering. You must find a way to release them. It is difficult – a risk beyond imagining – but I must send you into the Seer's embrace. I do not think you will forgive me.
    Struggling, Toc pushed his question forward in his mind. Release them. Why?
    An odd question, mortal. I speak of compassion. There are gifts unimagined in such efforts. A man who dreams has shown me this, and indeed, you shall soon see for yourself. Such gifts . . .
    'Compassion,' Toc said, mentally jarred by the Elder God's sudden departure. He blinked, saw that Tool and Kilava were staring at him. The woman's face had paled.
    'My sister,' the First Sword said, 'knows nothing of compassion.'
    Toc stared at the undead warrior, trying to retrieve what had been spoken last – before the ... visitation. He could not recall.
    'Brother Onos, you should have realized it by now,' Kilava slowly said. 'All things change.' Studying Toc once more, the woman smiled, but it was a smile of sorrow. 'I leave now—'
    'Kilava.' Tool stepped forward, a faint clash of bones and skin. 'The ritual that sundered you from your kin, the breaking of blood-ties – this Second Gathering, perhaps ...'
    Her expression softened. 'Dear brother, the summoner cares nothing for me. My ancient crime will not be undone. Moreover, I suspect that what will await you at the Second Gathering will not be as you imagine. But I... I thank you, Onos T'oolan, for the kind thought.'
    'I said ... we do not ... travel in step,' the undead warrior whispered, struggling with each word. 'I was angry, sister – but it is an old anger. Kilava—'
    'Old anger, yes. But you were right, none the less. We have never walked in step with each other. Our past ever dogs our trail. Perhaps some day we will mend our shared wounds, brother. This meeting has given me . . . hope.' She briefly laid a hand on Baaljagg's head, then turned away.
    Toc watched her vanish into the dusk's shroud.
    Another clattering of bones within leather skin made him swing round. To see Tool on his knees, head hung. There could be no tears from a corpse, yet ...
    Toc hesitated, then strode to the undead warrior. 'There was untruth in your words, Tool,' he said.
    Swords hissed out and the Malazan spun to see Senu and Thurule advancing on him.
    Tool snapped out a hand. 'Stop! Sheathe your weapons, Seguleh. I am immune to insults – even those delivered by one I would call a friend.'
    'Not an insult,' Toc said levelly, turning back to the T'lan Imass. 'An observation. What did you call it? The breaking of blood-ties.' He laid a hand on Tool's shoulder. 'It's clear to me, for what that's worth, that the breaking failed. The blood-ties remain. Perhaps you could take heart in that, Onos T'oolan.'
    The head tilted up, withered sockets revealed beneath the bone shelf of the helm.
    Gods, I look and see nothing. He looks and sees . . . what? Toc the Younger struggled to think of what to do, what to say next. As the moment stretched, he shrugged, offered his hand.
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