A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

dreamed I said no to the Ritual, I dreamed I strode to Onos T'oolan's side —
    — a face streaming tears – my tears —
    — Chode, who watched my mate lead the boy into the valley, and knew the child would be remade into a man – knew that he was in the gentlest of hands —
    — the grasslands were burning —
    — ranag in the Homed Circle —
    — I loved her so —
    Voices, a flood, memories – these warriors had not lost them. They had known them as living things – within their own dead bodies.
    Known them.
    For almost three hundred thousand years.
    — friend to Onrack of the Logros, I last saw him kneeling amidst the corpses of his clan. All slain in the street, yet the Soletaken were finally broken. Ah, at such a cost —
    — oh, heart laid at his feet, dear Legana Breed. So clever, sharpest of wit, oh how he made me laugh —
    — our eyes met, Maenas Lot and I, even as the Ritual began its demand, and we saw the fear in each other's eyes – our love, our dreams of more children, to fill the spaces of those we had lost out on the ice, our lives of mingled shadows – our love, that must now be surrendered —
    — I, Cannig Tol, watched as my hunters hurled their spears. She fell without making a sound, the last of her kind on this continent, and had I a heart, it would have burst, then. There was no justice in this war. We'd left our gods behind, and knelt only before an altar of brutality. Truth. And I, Cannig Tol, shall not turn away from truth —
    Itkovian's mind reeled back, sought to fend off the diluvial tide, to fight himself clear of his own soul's answering cry of sorrow, the torrent of truths shattering his heart, the secrets of the T'lan Imass – no, the Ritual – how – Fener's Tusks, how could you have done that to yourselves?
    And she has denied you. She has denied you all —
    He could not escape – he had embraced their pain, and the flood of memories was destroying him. Too many, too fiercely felt – relived, every moment relived by these lost creatures – he was drowning.
    He had promised them release, yet he knew now he would fail. There was no end, no way he could encompass this yearning gift, this desperate, begging desire.
    He was alone—
    — am Pran Chole, you must hear me, mortal!
    Alone. Fading ...
    Hear me, mortal! There is a place – I can lead you! You must carry all we give you – not far, not long – carry us, mortal! There is a place!
    Fading...
    Mortal! For the Grey Swords – you must do this! Hold on – succeed – and you will gift them. I can lead you!
    For the Grey Swords . . .
    Itkovian reached out—
    —and a hand, solid, warm, clasped his forearm—
     
    The ground crawled beneath her. Lichens – green-stalked and green-cupped, the cups filled with red; another kind, white as bone, intricate as coral; and beneath these, grey shark-skin on the mostly buried stones – an entire world, here, a hand's width from the ground.
    Her slow, inexorable passage destroyed it all, scraped a swathe through the lichens' brittle architecture. She wanted to weep.
    Ahead, close now, the cage of bone and stained skin, the creature within it a shapeless, massive shadow.
    Which still called to her, still exerted its terrible demand.
    To reach.
    To touch the ghastly barrier.
    The Mhybe suddenly froze in place, a vast, invisible weight pinning her to the ground.
    Something was happening.
    The earth beneath her twisting, flashes through the gathering oblivion, the air suddenly hot. A rumble of thunder —
    Drawing up her legs, pushing with one arm, she managed to roll onto her back. Breath rasping in shallow lungs, she stared —
     
    The hand held firm. Itkovian began to comprehend. Behind the memories awaited the pain, awaited all that he come to embrace. Beyond the memories, absolution was his answering gift – could he but survive ...
    The hand was leading him. Through a mindscape. Yet he strode across it as would a giant, the land distant below him.
    Mortal, shed these memories. Free them to soak the earth in the seasons gift. Down to the earth, mortal – through you, they can return life to a dying, desolate land.
    Please. You must comprehend. Memories belong in the soil, in stone, in wind. They are the land's unseen meaning, such that touches the souls of all who would look – truly look – upon it. Touches, in faintest whisper, old, almost shapeless echoes – to which a mortal life adds its own.
    Feed this dreamscape, mortal.
    And know this. We kneel