A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

I am sure.'
    Grimacing, she said, 'I have lost my purpose here. Clip
now leads. I . . . I don't know why I am still walking in your
sordid company.'
    'Contemplating leaving us, are you?'
    She shrugged.
    'Do not do that,' said Fear Sengar behind them.
    Surprised, she half turned. 'Why?'
    The warrior looked uncomfortable with his own statement.
He hesitated.
    What mystery is this?
    Udinaas laughed. 'His brother offered you a sword,
Acquitor. Fear understands – it wasn't just expedience. Nor
was your taking it, I'd wager—'
    'You do not know that,' Seren said, suddenly uneasy.
'Trull spoke – he assured me it was nothing more—'
    'Do you expect everyone to speak plainly?' the ex-slave
asked. 'Do you expect anyone to speak plainly? What sort of
world do you inhabit, Acquitor?' He laughed. 'Not the
same as mine, that's for certain. For every word we speak,
are there not a thousand left unsaid? Do we not often say
one thing and mean the very opposite? Woman, look at us
– look at yourself. Our souls might as well be trapped inside
a haunted keep. Sure, we built it – each of us – with our
own hands, but we've forgotten half the rooms, we get lost
in the corridors. We stumble into rooms of raging heat,
then stagger back, away, lest our own emotions roast us
alive. Other places are cold as ice – as cold as this frozen
land around us. Still others remain for ever dark – no
lantern will work, every candle dies as if starved of air, and
we grope around, collide with unseen furniture, with walls.
We look out through the high windows, but distrust all that
we see. We armour ourselves against unreal phantasms, yet
shadows and whispers make us bleed.'
    'Good thing the thousand words for each of those
were left unsaid,' Fear Sengar muttered, 'else we find ourselves
in the twilight of all existence before you are
through.'
    Udinaas replied without turning. 'I tore away the veil of
your reason, Fear, for asking the Acquitor to stay. Do you deny
that? You see her as betrothed to your brother. And that he
happens to be dead means nothing, because, unlike your youngest brother, you are an honourable man.'
    A grunt of surprise from Udinaas, as Fear Sengar reached
out to grasp the ex-slave, hands closing on the wrapped
folds of fur. A surge of anger sent Udinaas sprawling onto
the muddy scree.
    As the Tiste Edur then whirled to advance on the
winded Letherii, Seren Pedac stepped into his path. 'Stop.
Please, Fear. Yes, I know he deserved it. But . . . stop.'
    Udinaas had managed to sit up, Kettle crouching down
at his side and trying to wipe the smears of mud from his
face. He coughed, then said, 'That will be the last time I
compliment you, Fear.'
    Seren turned on the ex-slave. 'That was a rather vicious
compliment, Udinaas. And I second your own advice –
don't say anything like that again. Ever. Not if you value
your life—'
    Udinaas spat grit and blood, then said, 'Ah, but now
we've stumbled into a dark room indeed. And, Seren
Pedac, you are not welcome there.' He pushed himself
upright. 'You have been warned.' Then he looked up, one
hand settling on Kettle's shoulder. His eyes, suddenly
bright, avid, scanned Seren, Fear, and then moved up the
trail, to where Silchas Ruin and Clip now stood side by
side, regarding those downslope. 'Here's a most telling
question – the kind few dare utter, by the way. Which one
among us, friends, is not haunted by a death wish? Perhaps
we ought to discuss mutual suicide . . .'
    No-one spoke for a half-dozen heartbeats. Until Kettle
said, 'I don't want to die!'
    Seren saw the ex-slave's bitter smile crumble, a sudden
collapse into undeniable grief, before he turned away.
    'Trull was blind to his own truth,' Fear said to her in a
quiet voice. 'I was there, Acquitor. I know what I saw.'
    She refused to meet his eyes. Expedience. How could such a warrior proclaim his love for me? How could he even believe he knew me enough for that?
    And why can I see his face as clear in my mind as if he stood here before me? I am haunted indeed. Oh, Udinaas, you were right. Fear is an honourable man, so honourable as to break all our hearts.
    But, Fear, there is no value in honouring one who is dead.
    'Trull is dead,' she said, stunning herself with her own
brutality as she saw Fear visibly flinch. 'He is dead.' And so am I. There is no point in honouring the dead. I have seen too much to believe otherwise. Grieve for lost potential, the end of possibilities, the eternally silent demise of promise. Grieve