A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

learned how to live.
    The power of the Grey Goddess swirled in thick tendrils
through the battered-down doorway, so virulent as to rot
stone.
    Awaiting Bridthok and Torahaval at the threshold were
the remaining acolytes of this desperate faith. Septhune
Anabhin of Omari; and Sradal Purthu, who had fled
Y'Ghatan a year ago after a failed attempt to kill that
Malazan bitch, Dunsparrow. Both looked shrunken, now,
some essence of their souls drained away, dissolving in the
miasma like salt in water. Pained terror in their eyes as both
turned to watch Bridthok and Torahaval arrive.
    'Sribin is dead,' Septhune whispered. 'She will now
choose another.'
    And so she did.
    Invisible, a hand huge and clawed – more fingers than
could be sanely conceived – closed about Torahaval's chest,
spears of agony sinking deep. A choked gasp burst from her
throat and she staggered forward, pushing through the
others, all of whom shrank back, gazes swimming with relief
and pity – the relief far outweighing the pity. Hatred for
them flashed through Torahaval, even as she staggered into
the altar chamber; eyes burning in the acid fog of pestilence
she lifted her head, and looked upon Poliel.
    And saw the hunger that was desire.
    The pain expanded, filled her body – then subsided as
the clawed hand withdrew, the crusted talons pulling
loose.
    Torahaval fell to her knees, slid helplessly in her own
sweat that had pooled on the mosaic floor beneath her.
    Ware what you ask for. Ware what you seek.
    The sound of horse hoofs, coming from the Aisle of
Glory, getting louder.
    A rider comes. A rider? What – who dares this – gods below,
thank you, whoever you are. Thank you. She still clung to
the edge. A few breaths more, a few more ...
     
    Sneering, Brokeface pushed past the cowering priests at the
threshold. Paran scanned the three withered, trembling
figures, and frowned as they each in turn knelt at the touch
of his regard, heads bowing.
    'What ails them?' he asked.
    Brokeface's laugh hacked in the grainy air. 'Well said,
stranger. You have cold iron in your spine, I'll give you
that.'
    Idiot. I wasn't trying to be funny.
    'Get off that damned horse,' Brokeface said, blocking the
doorway. He licked his misshapen lips, both hands shifting
on the shaft of the scythe.
    'Not a chance,' Paran said. 'I know how you take care of
horses.'
    'You cannot ride into the altar chamber!'
    'Clear the way,' Paran said. 'This beast does not bother
biting – it prefers to kick and stamp. Delights in the sound
of breaking bones, in fact.'
    As the horse, nostrils flared, stepped closer to the doorway,
Brokeface flinched, edged back. Then he bared his
crooked teeth and hissed, 'Can't you feel her wrath? Her
outrage? Oh, you foolish man!'
    'Can she feel mine?'
    Paran ducked as his horse crossed the threshold. He
straightened a moment later. A woman writhed on the tiles
to his left, her dark skin streaked in sweat, her long limbs
trembling as the plague-fouled air stroked and slipped
round her, languid as a lover's caress.
    Beyond this woman rose a dais atop three broad, shallow steps
    on which were scattered the broken fragments of the altar stone. Centred on
    the dais, where the altar had once stood, was a throne fashioned of twisted,
    malformed bones. Commanding this seat, a figure radiating such power that
    her form was barely discernible. Long limbs, suppurating with venom, a bared
    chest androgynous in its lack of definition, its shrunken frailty; the legs
    that extended outward seemed to possess too many joints, and the feet were
    three-toed and taloned, raptorial yet as large as those of an enkar'al. Poliel's
    eyes were but the faintest of sparks, blurred and damp at the centre of black
    bowls. Her mouth, broad and the lips cracked and oozing, curled now into a
    smile.
    'Soletaken,' she said in a thin voice, 'do not frighten me.
I had thought, for a moment ... but no, you are nothing to
me.'
    'Goddess,' Paran said, settling back on his horse, 'I remain
turned away. The choice is mine, not yours, and so you see
only what I will you to see.'
    'Who are you? What are you?'
    'In normal circumstances, Poliel, I am but an arbiter. I
have come to make an offering.'
    'You understand, then,' the Grey Goddess said, 'the truth
beneath the veil. Blood was their path. And so we choose to
poison it.'
    Paran frowned, then he shrugged and reached into the
folds of his shirt. 'Here is my gift,' he said. Then hesitated. 'I
regret, Poliel, that these