A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

to the host
of questions now assailing him.
    Varat Taun, once second in command to Atri-Preda Yan
Tovis, huddled in a corner of the unfurnished room. His
only reaction to Yan Tovis's arrival was a flinch. Curling yet
tighter in that corner, he did not lift his head to look upon
her. This man had, alone, led Taralack Veed and Icarium
back through the warrens – a tunnel torn open by unknown
magic, through every realm the expedition had traversed
on their outward journey. The Atri-Preda herself had seen
the blistering wound that had been the exit gate; she had
heard its shrieking howl, a voice that seemed to reach into
her chest and grip her heart; she had stared in disbelieving
wonder at the three figures emerging from it, one dragged
between two . . .
    No other survivors. Not one. Neither Edur nor Letherii.
    Varat Taun's mind had already snapped. Incapable of
coherent explanations, he had babbled, shrieking at anyone
who drew too close to his person, yet unable or
unwilling to tear his wide eyes from the unconscious form
of Icarium.
    Taralack Veed's rasping words, then: All dead. Everyone. The First Throne is destroyed, every defender slaughtered – Icarium alone was left standing, and even he was grievously wounded. He is . . . he is worthy of your Emperor.
    But so the Gral had been saying since the beginning.
The truth was, no-one knew for certain. What had
happened in the subterranean sepulchre where stood the
First Throne?
    The terrible claims did not end there. The Throne of
Shadow had also been destroyed. Yan Tovis remembered
the dismay and horror upon the features of the Tiste Edur
when they comprehended Taralack Veed's badly accented
words.
    Another expedition was necessary. That much had been
obvious. To see the truth of such claims.
    The gate had closed shortly after spitting out the
survivors, the healing almost as violent and fraught as
the first wounding, with a cacophony of screams – like the
lost souls of the damned – erupting from that portal at
the last moment, leaving witnesses with the terrible conviction
that others had been racing to get out.
    Swift into the wake of that suspicion came the news of
failures – on ship after ship of the fleet – by the warlocks of
the Edur when they sought to carve new paths into the
warrens. The trauma created by that chaotic rent had
somehow sealed every possible path to the place of the
Throne of Shadow, and that of the T'lan Imass
First Throne. Was this permanent? No-one knew. Even to
reach out, as the warlocks had done, was to then recoil in
savage pain. Hot , they said; the very flesh of existence rages like fire .
    Yet in truth Yan Tovis had little interest in such matters.
She had lost soldiers, and none stung more than her second
in command, Varat Taun.
    She stared now upon his huddled form. Is this what I will deliver to his wife and child in Bluerose? Letherii healers had
tended to him, unsuccessfully – the wounds on his mind
were beyond their powers to mend.
    The sounds of boots in the corridor behind her. She
stepped to one side as the guard arrived with his barefooted
charge. Another 'guest'. A monk from the archipelago
theocracy of Cabal who had, oddly enough, volunteered to
join the Edur fleet, following, it turned out, a tradition of
delivering hostages to fend off potential enemies. The Edur
fleet had been too damaged to pose much threat at that
time, still licking its wounds after clashing with the
denizens of Perish, but that had not seemed to matter much
– the tradition announcing first contact with strangers was
an official policy.
    The Cabalhii monk standing now in the threshold of the
doorway was no higher than Twilight's shoulder, slight of
build, bald, his round face painted into a comical mask with
thick, solid pigments, bright and garish, exaggerating an
expression of hilarity perfectly reflected in the glitter of the
man's eyes. Yan Tovis had not known what to expect, but
certainly nothing like . . . this.
    'Thank you for agreeing to see him,' she now said. 'I
understand that you possess talent as a healer.'
    The monk seemed moments from bursting into laughter
at her every word, and Twilight felt a flash of irritation.
    'Can you understand me?' she demanded.
    Beneath the face paint the features were flat, unresponsive,
as he said in fluid Letherii, 'I understand your
every word. By the lilt of your accent, you come from the
empire's north, on the coast. You have also learned the
necessary intonation that is part of the