A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

lives.
    Gone to dust.
    The hapless band of Rhivi spirits drew closer, cautiously, hesitating.
    Yes. I understand. What demands will I make of you now? How many more empty promises will I voice? I had a people for you, a people who had long since lost their own gods, their own spirits to whom they had once avowed allegiance, were less than the dust they could make of themselves. A people.
    For you.
    Lost.
    What a lesson for four bound souls – no matchmaker, we four.
    She did not know what to tell them – these modest, timid spirits.
    'Bonecaster, we greet you.'
    Silverfox blinked her eyes clear. 'Elder Spirit. I have—'
    'Have you seen?'
    She saw then, in all their faces, a kind of wonder. And frowned in reply.
    'Bonecaster,' the foremost Rhivi continued, 'we have found something. Not far from here – do you know of what we speak?'
    She shook her head.
    'There are thrones, Bonecaster. Two thrones. In a long hut of bones and hide.'
    Thrones? 'What – why? Why should there be thrones in this realm? Who—?'
    The elder shrugged, then offered her a soft smile. 'They await, Bonecaster. We can feel the truth of that. Soon. Soon, will come this warren's true masters.'
    'True masters!' Anger flared in Silverfox. 'This realm – it was for you ! Who dares seek to usurp—'
    'No,' the spirit's quiet denial cut through her, swept the breath from her lungs. 'Not for us. Bonecaster, we are not powerful enough to command such a world as this. It has grown too vast, too powerful. Do not fear – we do not wish to leave, and we will endeavour to treat with the new masters. I believe they will permit us to remain. Perhaps indeed we will find ourselves pleased to serve them.'
    'No!' No! Not how it was supposed to be!
    'Bonecaster, there is no need for such strong feelings within you. The shaping continues. The fulfilment of your desires is still possible – perhaps not in the manner you originally intended ...'
    She no longer heard him. Despair was sundering her soul. As I stole . . . so it has been stolen from me. There is no injustice here, no crime. Accept the truth.
    Nightchill's strength of will.
    Tattersail's empathy.
    Bellurdan's loyalty.
    A Rhivi child's wonder.
    None were enough. None could of themselves – or together – absolve what has been done, the choices made, the denials voiced.
    Leave them. Leave them to this, to all of this, and all that is to come. Silverfox turned away. 'Find her, then. Go.'
    'Will you not walk with us? Your gift to her—'
    'Go.'
    My gift to her. My gift to you. They are all as one. Grand failures, defeats born from the flaws within me. I will not stand witness to my own shame – I cannot. I have not the courage for that.
    I'm sorry.
    She walked away.
    Brief flower. Seed to stalk to deadly blossom, all in the span of a single day. Bright-burning poison, destroying all who came too close.
    An abomination.
     
    The Rhivi spirits – a small band, men, women, children and elders, wearing hides and furs, their round faces burnished by sun and wind – watched Silverfox leave them. The elder who had spoken with her did not move until she slipped out of sight beneath the rim of a worn beach ridge, then he ran the back of four spread fingers across his eyes in a gesture of sad departing, and said, 'Build a fire. Prepare the ranag's shoulder blade. We have walked this land enough to see the map within.'
    'Once more,' an old woman sighed.
    The elder shrugged. 'The Bonecaster commanded that we find her mother.'
    'She will simply flee us again. As she did the ay. Like a hare—'
    'None the less. The Bonecaster has commanded. We shall lay the blade upon the flames. We shall see the map find its shape.'
    'And why should it be true this time?'
    The elder slowly lowered himself to press a hand down on the soft mosses. 'Why? Open your senses, doubting one. This land ...' he smiled, 'now lives.'
     
    Running.
    Free!
    Riding the soul of a god, within the muscles of a fierce, ancient beast. Riding a soul —
    — suddenly singing with joy. Mosses and lichen beneath the paws, spray of old rain water to streak the leg-fur. Smell of rich, fertile life – a world —
    Running. Pain already a fading memory, vague recollections of a cage of bone, growing pressure, ever more shallow breaths.
    Throwing head back, loosing a thunderous howl that trembled the sky.
    Distant answers.
    Which drew closer.
    Shapes, grey, brown and black flashes of movement on the tundra, streaming over ridges, sweeping down into shallow