A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

Aranatha.
    She circled once, high above the city, and even her
preternatural sight struggled against the eternal darkness
below. Kurald Galain was a most alien warren, even in
this diffused, weakened state. Passing directly over the
slumbering mass of Silanah, Crone cackled out an ironic
greeting. Of course there was no visible response from
the crimson dragon, yet the Great Raven well knew
that Silanah sensed her wheeling overhead. And no
doubt permitted, in a flash of imagery, the vision of jaws
snapping, bones and feathers crunching as delicious fluids
spurted – Crone cackled again, louder this time, and was
rewarded with a twitch of that long, serpentine tail.
    She slid on to an updraught from the cliff's edge, then
angled down through it on a steep dive towards the low-walled
balcony of the keep.
    He stood alone, something she had come to expect of
late. The Son of Darkness was closing in, like an onyx
flower as the bells of midnight rang on, chime by chime to
the twelfth and last, and then there would be naught but
echoes, until even these faded, leaving silence. She crooked
her wings to slow her plummet, the keep still rushing up to
meet her. A flurry of beating wings and she settled atop the
stone wall, talons crunching into the granite.
    'And does the view ever change?' Crone asked.
    Anomander Rake looked down, regarded her for a time.
    She opened her beak to laugh in silence for a few
heartbeats. 'The Tiste Andii are not a people prone to
sudden attacks of joy, are they? Dancing into darkness?
The wild cheerful cavort into the future? Do you imagine
that our flight from his rotting flesh was not one of
rapturous glee? Pleasure at being born, delight at being
alive? Oh, I have run out of questions for you – it is indeed
now a sad time.'
    'Does Baruk understand, Crone?'
    'He does. More or less. Perhaps. We'll see.'
    'Something is happening to the south.'
    She bobbed her head in agreement. 'Something, oh yes,
something all right. Are the priestesses in a wild orgy yet?
The plunge that answers everything ! Or, rather, postpones
the need for answers for a time, a time of corresponding
bliss, no doubt. But then . . . reality returns. Damn reality,
damn it to the Abyss! Time for another plunge!'
'Travel has soured your mood, Crone.'
    'It is not in my nature to grieve. I despise it, in fact. I rail
against it! My sphincter explodes upon it! And yet, what
is it you force upon me, your old companion, your beloved
servant?'
    'I have no such intention,' he replied. 'Clearly, you fear
the worst. Tell me, what have your kin seen?'
    'Oh, they are scattered about, here and there, ever high
above the petty machinations of the surface crawlers. We
watch as they crawl this way and that. We watch, we laugh,
we sing their tales to our sisters, our brothers.'
    'And?'
    She ducked her head, fixed one eye upon the tumultuous
black seas below. 'This darkness of yours, Master, breeds
fierce storms.'
    'So it does.'
    'I will fly high above the twisting clouds, into air clear
and cold.'
    'And so you shall, Crone, so you shall.'
    'I dislike it when you are generous, Master. When that
soft regard steals into your eyes. It is not for you to reveal
compassion. Stand here, yes, unseen, unknowable, that I
might hold this in my mind. Let me think of the ice of true
justice, the kind that never shatters – listen, I hear the bells
below! How sure that music, how true the cry of iron.'
    'You are most poetic this day, Crone.'
    'It is how Great Ravens rail at grief, Master. Now, what
would you have me do?'
    'Endest Silann is at the deep river.'
    'Hardly alone, I should think.'
    'He must return.'
    She was silent for a moment, head cocked. Then she
said, 'Ten bells have sounded.'
    'Ten.'
    'I shall be on my way, then.'
    'Fly true, Crone.'
    'I pray you tell your beloved the same, Master, when the
time is nigh.'
    He smiled. 'There is no need for that.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    Who are you to judge whether she is old
or young, and if she is lifting the bucket
or lowering it down into this well?
And is she pretty or plain as undyed linen,
is she a sail riding the summer wind
bright as a maiden's eye above waves of blue?
Does her walk sway in pleasure and promise
of bracing dreams as if the earth could sing
fertile as joyous butterflies in a flowered field,
or has this saddle stretched slack in cascades
of ripe fruit and rides no more through
blossomed orchards? Who then are you
to cage in presumptuous iron the very
mystery that calls us to life where