A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

eye left, capable of seeing ... almost ... In daylight
a blurred haze swarmed before his vision, and there was
pain, so much pain, until he could not even so much as
turn his head – oh yes, the healers had worked on him –
with orders, he now knew, to fail him again and again, to
leave him with a plague of senseless scars and phantom
agonies. And, once out of his room, they would laugh, at
the imagined success of their charade.
    Well, he would deliver their gifts back into their laps, all
those healers.
    In this soft, warm darkness, he stared upward from where
he lay on the cot. Things unseen creaked and groaned. A
rat scuttled back and forth along one side of the cramped
chamber. His sentinel, his bodyguard, his caged soul.
    A strange smell reached him, sweet, cloying, numbing,
and he felt his aches fading, the shrieking nerves falling
quiescent.
    'Who's there?' he croaked.
    A rasping reply, 'A friend, Tene Baralta. One, indeed,
whose visage matches your own. Like you, assaulted by
betrayal. You and I, we are torn and twisted to remind us,
again and again, that one who bears no scars cannot be
trusted. Ever. It is a truth, my friend, that only a mortal who
has been broken can emerge from the other side, whole
once more. Complete, and to all his victims, arrayed before
him, blindingly bright, yes? The searing white fires of his
righteousness. Oh, I promise you, that moment shall taste
sweet.'
    'An apparition,' Tene Baralta gasped. 'Who has sent you?
The Adjunct, yes? A demonic assassin, to end this—'
    'Of course not – and even as you make such accusations,
Tene Baralta, you know them to be false. She could kill you
at any time—'
    'My soldiers protect me—'
    'She will not kill you,' the voice said. 'She has no need.
She has already cast you away, a useless, pathetic victim of
Y'Ghatan. She has no realization, Tene Baralta, that your
mind lives on, as sharp as it has ever been, its judgement
honed and eager to draw foul blood. She is complacent.'
    'Who are you?'
    'I am named Gethol. I am the Herald of the House of
Chains. And I am here, for you. You alone, for we have
sensed, oh yes, we have sensed that you are destined for
greatness.'
    Ah, such emotion here, at his words ... no, hold it back. Be
strong ... show this Gethol your strength. 'Greatness,' he
said. 'Yes, of that I have always been aware, Herald.'
    'And the time has come, Tene Baralta.'
    'Yes?'
    'Do you feel our gift within you? Diminishing your pain,
yes?'
    'I do.'
    'Good. That gift is yours, and there is more to come.'
    'More?'
    'Your lone eye, Tene Baralta, deserves more than a
clouded, uncertain world, don't you think? You need
a sharpness of vision to match the sharpness of your mind.
That seems reasonable, indeed, just.'
    'Yes.'
    'That will be your reward, Tene Baralta.'
    'If I do what?'
    'Later. Such details are not for tonight. Until we speak
again, follow your conscience, Tene Baralta. Make your
plans for what will come. You are returning to the Malazan
Empire, yes? That is good. Know this, the Empress awaits
you. You, Tene Baralta, more than anyone else in this army.
Be ready for her.'
    'Oh, I shall, Gethol.'
    'I must leave you now, lest this visitation be discovered –
there are many powers hiding in this army. Be careful. Trust
no-one—'
    'I trust my Red Blades.'
    'If you must, yes, you will need them. Goodbye, Tene
Baralta.'
    Silence once more, and the gloom, unchanged and
unchanging, inside and out. Destined, yes, for greatness.
They shall see that. When I speak with the Empress. They shall
all see that.
     
    Lying in her bunk, the underside of the one above a mere
hand's-breadth away, knotted twine and murky tufts of
bedding, Lostara Yil kept her breathing slow, even. She
could hear the beat of her own heart, the swish of blood in
her ears.
    The soldier in the bunk beneath her grunted, then said
in a low voice, 'He's now talking to himself. Not good.'
    The voice from within Tene Baralta's cabin had been
murmuring through the wall for the past fifty heartbeats,
but had now, it seemed, stopped.
    Talking to himself? Hardly, that was a damned conversation. She closed her eyes at the thought, wishing she had been
asleep and unmindful of the ever more sordid nightmare
that was her commander's world: the viscous light in his
eye when she looked upon him, the muscles of his frame
sagging into fat, the twisted face beginning to droop, growing
flaccid where there were no taut scars. Pallid skin,
strands of hair thick with old sweat.
    What