A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

reshaping of light and shadow and dark.'
    'Do the Tiste Edur employ this Meanas?' Seren asked.
    'Uh, no. Not really. Theirs is a warren not normally accessible to humans. Kurald Emurlahn. It's Shadow, but Shadow more as a Hold than a warren. Besides, Kurald Emurlahn is shattered. In pieces. The Tiste Edur can access but one fragment and that's all.'
    'All right. Mockra and Meanas and Thyr. There are others?'
    'Plenty, lass. Rashan, Ruse, Tennes, Hood—'
    'Hood. You use that word when you curse, don't you?'
    'Aye, it's the warren of Death. It's the name of the god himself. But that's the other thing about warrens. They can be realms, entire worlds. Step through and you can find yourself in a land with ten moons overhead, and stars in constellations you've never seen before. Places with two suns. Or places filled with the spirits of the dead – although if you step through the gates in Hood's Realm you don't come back. Or, rather, you shouldn't. Anyway, a mage finds a warren suited to his or her nature, a natural affinity if you like. And through enough study and discipline you find ways of reaching into it, making use of the forces within it. Some people, of course, are born with natural talent, meaning they don't have to work as hard.'
    'So, you reach into this Mockra, and that gets you into the minds of other people.'
    'Sort of, lass. I make use of proclivities. I make the water cloudy, or fill it with frightening shadows. The victim's body does the rest.'
    'Their body? What do you mean?'
    'Say you take two cows to slaughter. One of them you kill quick, without it even knowing what's about to happen. The other, well, you push it down a track, in some place filled with the stench of death, with screams of other dying animals on all sides. Until, stupid as that cow is, it knows what's coming. And is filled with terror. Then you kill it. Cut a haunch from each beast, do they taste identical?'
    'I have no idea.'
    'They don't. Because the frightened cow's blood was filled with bitter fluids. That's what fear does. Bitter, noxious fluids. Makes the meat itself unhealthy to eat. My point is, you trick the mind to respond to invisible fears, unfounded beliefs, and the blood goes foul, and that foulness makes the fear worse, turns the belief into certainty.'
    'As if the slaughterhouse for the second cow was only an illusion, when in truth it was crossing pasture.'
    'Exactly.'
    Seren studied the back of Iron Bars where he rode ahead, and was silent.
    'All right,' Corlo said after a time, 'now tell me what you're really on about, lass.'
    She hesitated, then asked, 'Corlo, can you do anything about memories?' She looked across at him. 'Can you take them away?'
    In front of them, Iron Bars half turned in his saddle, regarded Seren a moment, then swung back round.
    'Ah,' Corlo said under his breath. 'You sure you want that?'
    'Can you?'
    'I can make you blind and senseless to them, but it'll be in your nature to fret about that strange emptiness. As if you're always on the edge of realization, but never able to reach it. It could drive you to distraction, Acquitor. Besides, the body remembers. You'll react to things you see, smell, taste, and you won't know why. It'll gnaw away at you. Your whole personality will change.'
    'You've done it before, haven't you?'
    He nodded. Then hesitantly ventured, 'There's another option, lass.'
    'What?'
    'It's not the memories that are hurting, Acquitor. It's how you feel about them. It's the you, now, warring with the you, then. Can't explain it any better—'
    'No, I understand you.'
    'Well, I can make you feel, uh, differently about it.'
    'How do you mean?'
    'End the war, lass.'
    'What would I feel, Corlo?'
    'I could make you cry it out. All out, Seren.' He met her eyes. 'And when that was done, you'd feel better. Not much better, but some. You release it all, but only once, I promise. There's a risk with crying it all out, mind you. Could be as traumatic as the rape itself. But you won't fall into the trap of cycling through it over and over again. Release gets addictive, you see. It becomes a fixed behaviour, as destructive as any other. Keep repeating the exercise of grief and it loses meaning, it becomes rote, false, a game of self-delusion, self-indulgence. A way of never getting over anything, ever.'
    'This sounds complicated, Corlo.'
    'It is. You stop the war all in one shot, and afterwards the memory leaves you feeling... nothing. A little remorse, maybe. The same as you feel for