A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

tragically slain Letherii
swordsman.
    He stood, looking down at the dusty, web-covered urn.
    And prayed for Brys Beddict's return.
    A pattern was taking shape, incrementally, inexorably. Yet
the Errant, once known as Turudal Brizad, Consort to
Queen Janall, could not discern its meaning. The
sensation, of unease, of dread, was new to him. Indeed, he
considered, one could not imagine a more awkward state of
mind for a god, here in the heart of his realm.
    Oh, he had known times of violence; he had walked the
ashes of dead empires, but his own sense of destiny was,
even then, ever untarnished, inviolate and absolute. And,
to make matters worse, patterns were his personal
obsession, held to with a belief in his mastery of that arcane
language, a mastery beyond challenge.
    Then who is it who plays with me now?
    He stood in the gloom, listening to the trickle of water
seeping down some unseen wall, and stared down at
the Cedance, the stone tiles of the Holds, the puzzle
floor that was the very foundation of his realm. The
Cedance. My tiles. Mine. I am the Errant. This is my game.
    While before him the pattern ground on, the rumbling of
stones too low and deep to hear, yet their resonance grated
in his bones. Disparate pieces, coming together. A function hidden, until the last moment – when all is too late, when the closure denies every path of escape.
    Do you expect me to do nothing? I am not just one more of your victims. I am the Errant. By my hand, every fate is turned. All that seems random is by my design. This is an immutable truth. It has ever been. It shall ever be.
    Still, the taste of fear was on his tongue, as if he'd been
sucking on dirtied coins day after day, running the wealth
of an empire through his mouth. But is that bitter flow inward or out?
    The grinding whisper of motion, all resolution of the
images carved into the tiles . . . lost . Not a single Hold
would reveal itself.
    The Cedance had been this way since the day Ezgara
Diskanar died. The Errant would be a fool to disregard linkage,
but that path of reason had yet to lead him anywhere.
Perhaps it was not Ezgara's death that mattered, but the
Ceda's. He never liked me much. And I stood and watched, as the Tiste Edur edged to one side, as he flung his spear, transfixing Kuru Qan, killing the greatest Ceda since the First Empire. My game, I'd thought at the time. But now, I wonder . . .
    Maybe it was Kuru Qan's. And, somehow, it still plays out. I did not warn him of that imminent danger, did I? Before his last breath rattled, he would have comprehended that . . . omission.
    Has this damned mortal cursed me? Me, a god!
    Such a curse should be vulnerable. Not even Kuru Qan
was capable of fashioning something that could not be dismantled
by the Errant. He need only understand its
structure, all that pinned it in place, the hidden spikes
guiding these tiles.
    What comes? The empire is reborn, reinvigorated, revealing the veracity of the ancient prophecy. All is as I foresaw.
    His study of the blurred pavestones below the walkway
became a glare. He hissed in frustration, and watched his
breath plume away in the chill.
    An unknown transformation, in which I see naught but the ice of my own exasperation. Thus, I see, but am blind, blind to it all.
    The cold, too, was a new phenomenon. The heat of
power had bled away from this place. Nothing was as it
should be.
    Perhaps, at some point, he would have to admit defeat. And then I will have to pay a visit to a little, crabby old man. Working as a servant to a worthless fool. Humble, I will come in search of answers. I let Tehol live, didn't I? That must count for something.
    Mael, I know you interfered last time. With unconscionable disregard for the rules. My rules. But I have forgiven you, and that, too, must count for something.
    Humility tasted even worse than fear. He was not yet
ready for that.
    He would take command of the Cedance. But to usurp
the pattern, he would first have to find its maker. Kuru
Qan? He was unconvinced.
    There are disturbances in the pantheons, new and old. Chaos, the stink of violence. Yes, this is a god's meddling. Perhaps Mael himself is to blame – no, it feels wrong. More likely, he knows nothing, remains blissfully ignorant. Will it serve me to make him aware that something is awry?
    An empire reborn. True, the Tiste Edur had their secrets,
or at least they believed such truths were well hidden. They
were not. An alien god had usurped them, and had made of
a young Edur