A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

before you. Silenced in our hearts by what you offer to us, by what you offer of yourself.
    You are Itkovian, and you would embrace the T'lan Imass.
    Shed these memories – weep for us, mortal —
     
    Heaving, churning cloud where before there had been naught but a formless, colourless, impossibly distant dome – the cloud spreading, tumbling out to fill the entire sky, drawing dark curtains across bruised rainbows. Lightning, crimson-stained, flickered from horizon to horizon.
    She watched the falling, watched the descent – rain, no, hail —
    It struck. Drumming roar on the ground, the sound filling her ears – sweeping closer —
    To pummel her.
    She screamed, throwing up her hands.
    Each impact was explosive, something more than simply frozen rain.
    Lives. Ancient, long forgotten lives.
    And memories —
    All raining down.
    The pain was unbearable —
    Then cessation, a shadow slipping over her, close, a figure, hunched beneath the trammelling thud of hail. A warm, soft hand on her brow, a voice —
    'Not much further, dear lass. This storm – unexpected—' the voice broke, gasping as the deluge intensified, 'yet. . . wonderful. But you must not stop now. Here, Kruppe will help you . . .'
    Shielding as much of her from the barrage as he could, he began dragging her forward, closer . . .
     
    Silverfox wandered. Lost, half blinded by the tears that streamed without surcease. What she had begun as a child, on a long forgotten barrow outside the city of Pale – what she had begun so long ago – now seemed pathetic.
    She had denied the T'lan Imass.
    Denied the T'lan Ay.
    But only for a time – or so had been her intent. A brief time, in which she would work to fashion the world that awaited them. The spirits that she had gathered, spirits who would serve that ancient people, become their gods – she had meant them to bring healing to the T'lan Imass, to their long-bereft souls.
    A world where her mother was young once more.
    A dreamworld, gift of K'rul. Gift of the Daru, Kruppe.
    Gift of love, in answer to all she had taken from her mother.
    But the T'lan Ay had turned away, were silent to her desperate call – and now Whiskeyjack was dead. Two marines, two women whose solid presence she had come to depend on – more than they could ever have realized. Two marines, killed defending her.
    Whiskeyjack. All that was Tattersail keened with inconsolable grief. She had turned from him as well. Yet he had stepped into Kallor's path.
    He had done that, for he remained the man he had always been.
    And now, lost too were the T'lan Imass. The man, Itkovian, the mortal, Shield Anvil without a god, who had taken into himself the slain thousands of Capustan – he had opened his arms—
    You cannot embrace the pain of the T'lan Imass. Were your god still with you, he would have refused your thought. You cannot. They are too much. And you, you are but one man – alone – you cannot take their burden. It is impossible.
    Heart-breakingly brave.
    But impossible.
    Ah, Itkovian . . .
    Courage had defeated her, but not her own – which had never been strong – no, the courage of those around her. On all sides – Coll and Murillio, with their misguided honour, who had stolen her mother and were no doubt guarding her even now, as she slowly died. Whiskeyjack and the two marines. Itkovian. And even Tayschrenn, who had torn himself – badly – unleashing his warren to drive Kallor away. Such extraordinary, tragically misguided courage—
    I am Nightchill, Elder Goddess. I am Bellurdan, Thelomen Skullcrusher. I am Tattersail, who was once mortal. And I am Silverfox, flesh and blood Bonecaster, Summoner of the T'lan.
    And I have been defeated.
    By mortals —
    The sky heaved over her – she looked up. Eyes widening in disbelief—
     
    The wolf thrashed, battered against the bone bars of its cage – its cage ... my ribs. Trapped. Dying —
    And that is a pain I share.
    His chest was on fire, blossoms of intense agony lashing into him as if arriving from somewhere outside, a storm, blistering the skin covering his ribs—
    —yet it grew no stronger, indeed, seemed to fade, as if with each wounding something was imparted to him, a gift—
    Gift? This pain? How – what is it? What comes to me?
    Old, so very old. Bittersweet, lost moments of wonder, of joy, of grief – a storm of memories, not his – so many, arriving like ice, then melting in the flare of impact – he felt his flesh grow numb beneath the unceasing