A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

of a store selling headstones and crypt façades. An
array of stylized deities, none of them temple-sanctioned
as yet, beseeching blessings upon the future dead. Beru
and Burn, Soliel and Nerruse, Treach and the Fallen
One, Hood and Fanderay, Hound and tiger, boar and
worm. The shop was closed and he looked upon stones
still uncarved, awaiting names of loved ones. Against one
of the low yard walls stood a row of marble sarcophagi,
and against the wall opposite there were tall urns with
their flared mouths, narrow necks and swollen bellies,
reminding him of pregnant women . . . birth into death,
wombs to hold all that remained of mortal flesh, homes
to those who would answer the final question, the last
question: what lies beyond? What awaits us all? What shape
the gate before me? There were plenty of ways of asking it,
but they all meant the same thing, and all sought the one
answer.
    One spoke of death often. The death of a friendship.
The death of love. Each echoed with the finality that
waited at the very end, but they were faint echoes, ghostly,
acting out scenes in puppet shows swallowed in flickering
shadows. Kill a love. What lies beyond? Emptiness, cold,
drifting ashes, yet does it not prove fertile? A place where a
new seed is planted, finding life, growing into itself? Is this how
true death is, as well?
    From the dust, a new seed . . .
    A pleasing thought. A comforting thought.
    The street behind him was modestly crowded, the
last of the late night shoppers reluctant to close out this
day. Maybe they had nothing to go home to. Maybe they
hungered for one more purchase, in the forlorn hope that it
would fill whatever emptiness gnawed deep inside.
    None wandered into this yard, none wanted the reminder
of what waited for them all. Why, then, had he found
himself here? Was he seeking some kind of comfort, some
reminder that for each and every person, no matter where,
the same conclusion was on its way? One could walk, one
could crawl, one could run headlong, but one could never
turn round and head the other way, could never escape.
Even with the truism that all grief belonged to the living,
the ones left behind – facing empty spaces where someone
once stood – there could be found a kind of calm repose. We walk the same path, some farther along, some farther back,
but still and for ever more the same path.
    There was, then, the death of love.
    And there was, alas, its murder.
    'Crokus Younghand.'
    He slowly turned round. A woman stood before him,
exquisitely dressed, a cloak of ermine about her shoulders.
A heart-shaped face, languid eyes, painted lips, and yes, he
knew this face. Had known it, a younger version, a child's
version, perhaps, but now there was nothing of that child
– not in the eyes, not even in the sad smile on those full
lips. 'Challice D'Arle.'
    Later, he would look back on this moment, on the dark
warning contained in the fact that, when he spoke her
name of old, she did not correct him.
    Would such percipience have changed things? All that
was to come?
    Death and murder, seeds in the ashes, one does as one
does. Sarcophagi gaped. Urns echoed hollow and dark.
Stone faces awaited names, grief crouching at the gate.
    Such was this night in the city of Darujhistan.
    Such is this night, everywhere .

CHAPTER TWELVE
    Where will I stand
When the walls come down
East to the sun's rise
North to winter's face
South to where stars are born
West to the road of death
    Where will I stand
When the winds wage war
Fleeing the dawn
Howling the breath of ice
Blistered with desert's smile
Dusty from crypts
    Where will I stand
When the world crashes down
And on all sides
I am left exposed
To weapons illimitable
From the vented host
    Will I stand at all
Against such forces unbarred
Reeling to every blow
Blinded by storms of pain
As all is taken from me
So cruelly taken away
    Let us not talk of courage
Nor steel fortitude
The gifts of wisdom
Burn too hot to touch
The hunger for peace
Breaks the heart
    Where will I stand
In the dust of a done life
Face bared to regrets
That flail the known visage
Until none but strangers
Watch my fall
    None but Strangers
Fisher kel Tath
    The stately trees with their black trunks and midnight
leaves formed a rough ring encircling Suruth
Common. From the centre of the vast clearing, one
could, upon facing north, see the towers of the Citadel,
their slim lines echoing these sacred trees. Autumn had
arrived, and the air was filled with the drifting filaments
from the