A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

water on stone
with every strike of the hand.
    Water and Stone
Elder Fent
    The Realm of Shadow was home to brutal places, yet
not one could match the brutality of shadows upon
the soul. Such thoughts haunted Cotillion these
days. He stood on a rise, before him a gentle, elongated
slope reaching down to a lake's placid waters. A makeshift
camp was visible on a level terrace forty paces to his left, a
single longhouse flanked by half-buried outbuildings, including
stable and coop. The entire arrangement – fortunately
unoccupied at the time, excepting a dozen hens and a rooster,
one irritated rook with a gimp leg and two milk cows – had
been stolen from another realm, captured by some vagary of
happenstance, or, more likely, the consequence of the breaking
of mysterious laws, as seemed to occur sporadically during
Shadow Realm's endless migration.
    However it had arrived, Shadowthrone learned of it in
time to despatch a flurry of wraiths to lay claim to the
buildings and livestock, saving them from predation by
roving demons or, indeed, one of the Hounds.
    Following the disaster at the First Throne, the score of
survivors had been delivered to this place, to wander and
wonder at the strange artifacts left by the previous inhabitants:
the curved wooden prows surmounting the peaks
of the longhouse with their intricate, serpentine carvings;
the mysterious totemic jewellery, mostly of silver although
amber seemed common as well; the bolts of cloth, wool
both coarse and fine; wooden bowls and cups of hammered
bronze. Wandering through it all, dazed, a blankness in
their eyes . . .
    Recovering.
    As if such a thing is possible.
    Off to his right, a lone cape-shrouded figure stood at the
water's edge, motionless, seeming to stare out on
the unmarred expanse of the lake. There was nothing
normal to this lake, Cotillion knew, although the scene it
presented from this section of the shore was deceptively
serene. Barring the lack of birds. And the absence of
molluscs, crustaceans or even insects.
    Every scrap of food to feed the livestock – and the
miserable rook – was brought in by the wraiths
Shadowthrone had assigned to the task. For all of that, the
rooster had died mere days after arriving. Died from grief, I expect. Not a single dawn to crow awake .
    He could hear voices from somewhere just beyond the
longhouse. Panek, Aystar and the other surviving children
– well, hardly children any more. They'd seen battle, they'd
seen their friends die, they knew the world – every world –
was an unpleasant place where a human's life was not worth
much. They knew, too, what it meant to be used.
    Further down the beach, well past the lone hooded
figure, walked Trull Sengar and the T'lan Imass, Onrack
the Broken. Like an artist with his deathless muse, or
perhaps at his shoulder a critic of ghastly mien. An odd
friendship, that one. But then, T'lan Imass were full of
surprises.
    Sighing, Cotillion set off down the slope.
    The hooded head half turned at his approach. A face the
hue of burnished leather, eyes dark beneath the felted wool
rim of the hood. 'Have you come with the key, Cotillion?'
    'Quick Ben, it is good to see that you have recovered.'
    'More or less.'
    'What key?'
    The flash of a humourless smile. 'The one that sets me
free.'
    Cotillion stood beside the wizard and studied the murky
expanse of water. 'I would imagine that you could leave
here at any time. You are a High Mage, with more than one
warren at your disposal. Force a gate, then walk through it.'
    'Do you take me for a fool?' Quick Ben asked in a quiet
voice. 'This damned realm is wandering. There's no telling
where I would come out, although if I guess correctly, I
would be in for a long swim.'
    'Ah. Well, I'm afraid I pay little attention to such things
these days. We are crossing an ocean, then?'
    'So I suspect.'
    'Then indeed, to journey anywhere you require our help.'
    The wizard shot him a glance. 'As I thought. You have
created pathways, gates with fixed exits. How did you
manage that, Cotillion?'
    'Oh, not our doing, I assure you. We simply stumbled
onto them, in a manner of speaking.'
    'The Azath.'
    'Very good. You always were sharp, Ben Delat.'
    A grunt. 'I've not used that version of my name in a long
time.'
    'Oh? When was the last time – do you recall?'
    'These Azath,' Quick Ben said, clearly ignoring the
question. 'The House of Shadow itself, here in this realm,
correct? Somehow, it has usurped the gate, the original
gate. Kurald Emurlahn.