A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

on by fear and fascination, she had
followed, not understanding how the future could echo back
to her world, her time. Not understanding? Well, he couldn't
either. As if all is present, as if every moment co-exists. And here
we two are, face to face, both too ignorant to partition our faith,
our way of seeing the world – and so we see them all, all at once,
and if we're not careful it will drive us mad.
    But there was no turning back. Simply because back did
not exist.
    He remained seated and she came closer, chattering now
in some strange glottal tongue filled with clicks and stops.
She gestured at her own belly, ran an index figure along it
as if drawing a shape on the downy, paler pelt.
    Bottle nodded. Yes, you carry a child. I understand that
much. Still, what is that to me?
    She threw more sand at him, most of it striking below his
chest. He waved at the cloud in front of his stinging eyes.
    A lunge forward, surprisingly swift, and she gripped his
wrist, drew his arm forward, settled his hand on her belly.
    He met her eyes, and was shaken to his very core. This
was no mindless creature. Eres'al. The yearning in those
dark, stunningly beautiful eyes made him mentally reel.
    'All right,' he whispered, and slowly sent his senses
questing, into that womb, into the spirit growing within it.
    For every abomination, there must emerge its answer. Its
enemy, its counterbalance. Here, within this Eres'al, is such an
answer. To a distant abomination, the corruption of a once-innocent
spirit. Innocence must be reborn. Yet ... I can see so
little ... not human, not even of this world, barring what the
Eres'al herself brought to the union. Thus, an intruder. From
another realm, a realm bereft of innocence. To make them part
of this world, one of their kind must be born ... in this way.
Their blood must be drawn into this world's flow of blood.
    But why an Eres'al? Because ... gods below ... because she
is the last innocent creature, the last innocent ancestor of our line.
After her ... the degradation of spirit begins. The shifting of perspective,
the separation from all else, the carving of borders – in the
ground, in the mind's way of seeing. After her, there's only ... us.
    The realization – the recognition – was devastating.
Bottle pulled his hand away. But it was too late. He knew
too many things, now. The father ... Tiste Edur. The child
to come ... the only pure candidate for a new Throne of
Shadow – a throne commanding a healed realm.
    And it would have so many enemies. So many ...
    'No,' he said to the creature, shaking his head. 'You cannot
pray to me. Must not. I'm not a god. I'm only a ...'
    Yet ... to her I must seem just that. A vision. She is spirit-questing
and she barely knows it. She's stumbling, as much as
we all are, but within her there's a kind of ... certainty. Hope.
Gods ... faith.
    Humbled beyond words, filling with shame, Bottle pulled
away, clawing up the slope of the mound, amidst the detritus
of civilization, potsherds and fragments of mortar, rusted
pieces of metal. No, he didn't want this. Could not encompass
this ... this need in her. He could not be her ... her faith.
    She drew yet closer, hands closing round his neck, and
dragged him back. Teeth bared, she shook him.
    Unable to breathe, Bottle flailed in her grip.
    She threw him down, straddled him, released his neck
and raised two fists as if to batter him.
    'You want me to be your god?' he gasped, 'Fine, then!
Have it your way!' He stared up at her eyes, at the fists
lifted high, framed by bright, blinding sunlight.
    So, is this how a god feels?
    A flash of glare, as if a sword had been drawn, an eager
hiss of iron filling his head. Something like a fierce
challenge—
    Blinking, he found himself staring up at the empty sky,
lying on the rough scree. She was gone, but he could still
feel the echo of her weight on his hips, and the appalling
erection her position had triggered in him.
     
    Fist Keneb walked into the Adjunct's tent. The map-table
had been assembled and on it was an imperial map of
Y'Ghatan that had been delivered a week earlier by a rider
from Onearm's Host. It was a scholar's rendition drawn
shortly after Dassem's fall. Standing at Tavore's side was
Tene Baralta, busy scrawling all over the vellum with a
charcoal stick, and the Red Blade was speaking.
    '... rebuilt here, and here, in the Malazan style of sunk
columns and counter-sunk braces. The engineers found the
ruins beneath the streets to be a maze of pockets,