A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

until the fall of Ugarat. The few T'lan Imass the humans managed to destroy when they rebelled were each buried in sacred sites. Sites such as this one, Kamist Reloe.'
    But the other mage shook his head. 'She is a creature of rage. Such fury does not belong to T'lan Imass—'
    'Unless she had reason. Memories of a betrayal, perhaps, from her mortal life. A wound too deep to be eradicated by the Ritual of Tellann.' Febryl shrugged. 'It does not matter. The spirit is T'lan Imass.'
    'It is rather late in the day for you to be revealing this to us,' Kamist Reloe growled, turning his head to spit. 'Does the Ritual of Tellann still bind her?'
    'No. She broke those chains long ago and has reclaimed her soul – Raraku's secret gifts are those of life and death, as primal as existence itself. It returned to her all that she had lost – perhaps even the rebirth of her rage. Raraku, Kamist Reloe, remains the deepest mystery of all, for it holds its own memories ... of the sea, of life's very own waters. And memories are power.'
    Kamist Reloe drew his cloak tighter about his gaunt form. 'Open the path.'
    And when I have done this for you and your Mezla friends, High Mage, you will be indebted to me, and my desires. Seven Cities shall be liberated. The Malazan Empire will withdraw all interests, and our civilization shall flower once more ...
    He stepped to the centre of the ring of stones and raised his hands.
     
    Something was coming. Bestial and wild with power. And with each passing moment, as it drew ever nearer, L'oric's fear grew. Ancient wars. . . such is the feel of this, as of enmity reborn, a hatred that defies millennia. And though he sensed that no-one mortal in the oasis city was the subject of that wrath, the truth remained that ... we are all in the way.
    He needed to learn more. But he was at a loss as to which path he should take. Seven Cities was a land groaning beneath unseen burdens. Its skin was thick with layers,
weathered hard. Their secrets were not easily prised loose, especially in Raraku.
    He sat cross-legged on the floor of his tent, head lowered, thoughts racing. The Whirlwind's rage had never before been so fierce, leading him to suspect that the Malazan army was drawing close, that the final clash of wills was fast approaching. This was, in truth, a convergence, and the currents had trapped other powers, pulling them along with relentless force.
    And behind it all, the whispers of a song . . .
    He should flee this place. Take Felisin – and possibly Heboric as well – with him. And soon. Yet curiosity held him here, at least for the present. Those layers were splitting, and there would be truths revealed, and he would know them. I came to Raraku because I sensed my father's presence . . . somewhere close. Perhaps here no longer, but he had been, not long ago. The chance of finding his trail...
    The Queen of Dreams had said Osric was lost. What did that mean? How? Why? He hungered for answers to such questions.
    Kurald Thyrllan had been born of violence, the shattering of Darkness. The Elder Warren had since branched off in many directions, reaching to within the grasp of mortal humans as Thyr. And, before that, in the guise of life-giving fire, Tellann.
    Tellann was a powerful presence here in Seven Cities, obscure and buried deep perhaps, but pervasive none the less. Whereas Kurald Thyrllan had been twisted and left fraught by the shattering of its sister warren. There were no easy passages into Thyrllan, as he well knew.
    Very well, then. I shall try Tellann.
    He sighed, then slowly climbed to his feet. There were plenty of risks, of course. Collecting his bleached telaba in the crook of one arm, he moved to the chest beside his cot. He crouched, passing a hand over it to temporarily dispel its wards, then lifted back the lid.
    Liosan armour, the white enamel gouged and scarred. A
visored helm of the same material, the leather underlining webbed over eyes and cheeks by black iron mail. A light, narrow-bladed longsword, its point long and tapering, scabbarded in pale wood.
    He drew the armour on, including the helm, then pulled his telaba over it, raising the hood as well. Leather gauntlets and sword and belt followed.
    Then he paused.
    He despised fighting. Unlike his Liosan kin, he was averse to harsh judgement, to the assertion of a brutally delineated world-view that permitted no ambiguity. He did not believe order could be shaped by a sword's edge. Finality, yes, but finality stained