A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

shade of amber. Predatory, fixed as a lion's before
a killing charge. On the faded tapestry a figure stood tall
amidst carnage. The bodies tumbled before him all bled
from wounds to the back. Nothing subtle here, the weaver's
outrage dripped from every thread. White-skinned, onyx-eyed,
sweat-blackened hair braided like hanging ropes.
Slick swords in his hands, he looked out upon the viewer,
defiant and cold. In the wracked sky behind him wheeled
Locqui Wyval with women's heads, their mouths open in
screams almost audible.
    'He did not mean it,' said Anomander Rake.
    But he did. 'Your ability to forgive far surpasses mine,
Lord.'
    'The body follows the head, but sometimes it's the other
way round. There was a cabal. Ambitious, hungry. They
used him, Endest, they used him badly.'
    'They paid for it, didn't they?'
    'We all did, old friend.'
    Endest Silann looked away. 'I so dislike this hallway,
Lord. When I must walk it, I look neither left nor right.'
    Rake grunted. 'It is indeed a gauntlet of recrimination.'
    'Reminders, Lord, of the fact that some things never
change.'
    'You must wrest yourself loose, Endest. This despondency
can . . . ravage the soul.'
    'I have heard, there is a river that empties into Coral
Bay. Eryn or Maurik. Which seems depthless.'
    Anomander Rake, still studying the tapestry, nodded.
    'Spinnock Durav has seen it, walked its shores. He says it
reminds him of Dorssan Ryl . . . his childhood.'
    'Yes, there are some similarities.'
    'I was thinking, if I could be spared . . .'
    His Lord glanced over and smiled. 'A pilgrimage? Of
course, Endest. If, that is, you can return before a month
passes.'
    Ah, are we so close, then? 'I will not stay long, Lord. Only
to see, with my own eyes, that is all.'
    The glance had become something more focused, and
the amber glare had dimmed to something like . . . like
mud . 'I fear you may be disappointed. It is but a deep river.
We cannot touch the past, old friend.' He looked back once
more on the tapestry. 'And the echoes we imagine we hear,
well, they deceive. Do not be surprised, Endest, if you find
nothing you seek, and everything you fear.'
    And what is it, Lord, that you think I seek? I would not ask
what you think I fear for you know the answer to that one. 'I
thought the walk might do me some good.'
    'And so it shall.'
    Now, the next day, he sat in his chamber. A small leather
pack of supplies rested beside the door. And the thought
of a walk, a long one, up rugged mountainsides beneath
hard sunlight, no longer seemed so appetizing. Age did
such things, feeding the desire then starving the will. And
what, after all, would seeing the river achieve?
    A reminder of illusions, perhaps, a reminder that, in
a realm for ever beyond reach, there stood the ruin of a
once-great city, and, flowing round it, Dorssan Ryl, living
on, ceaseless in its perfect absence, in playing its game
of existence. A river of purest darkness, the life water of
the Tiste Andii, and if the children were gone, well, what
difference did that make?
    Children will leave. Children will abandon the old ways,
and the old fools with all their pointless advice can mutter
and grumble to empty spaces and nod at the answering
echoes. Stone and brickwork make ideal audiences.
    No, he would make this journey. He would defy the
follies of old age, unmeasured and unmocked under the
eyes of the young. A solitary pilgrimage.
    And all these thoughts, seeming so indulgent and wayward,
will perhaps reveal their worth then, driving dire
echoes forward to that future moment of revelation. Hah.
Did he believe such things? Did he possess the necessary
faith?
    'Ask no question, the river shall answer.'
    'Question the river, find the answer.'
    The Mad Poets spent lifetimes waging profound wars in
their rendered prose. Achieving what? Why, the implosive
obliteration of their tradition.
    Summarize that in two clauses.
    'I need you to make a journey.'
    Spinnock Durav managed a smile. 'When, Lord?'
    Anomander Rake stretched out his legs until his boots
were very nearly in the flames of the hearth. 'Soon, I
think. Tell me, how goes the game?'
    He squinted at the fire. 'Not well. Oh, I win each time.
It's just that my finest opponent does poorly of late. His
mind is on other matters, unfortunately. I am not pressed,
and this removes much of the pleasure.'
    'This would be Seerdomin.'
    Spinnock glanced up, momentarily surprised. But of course , he told himself, he is the Son of Darkness, after all.
They may well call him