A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

blackwood.
    The great forges to the west lit crimson the foul clouds
hanging over them, so that it seemed that one side of
Kharkanas was ablaze. An eternal rain of ash plagued the
massive, sprawling factories, nothing as sweet as the curled
filaments to mark the coming of the cold season.
    Within the refuge of Suruth Common, the blasted
realm of the factories seemed worlds away. Thick beds
of moss cloaked the pavestones of the clearing, muting
Endest Silann's boots as he walked to the concave altar
stone at the very heart. He could see no one else about
– this was not the season for festivity. This was not a
time for celebration of any sort. He wondered if the trees
sensed him, if they were capable of focusing some kind of
attention upon him, made aware by the eddies of air, the
exudation of heat and breath.
    He had read once a scholar's treatise describing the
chemical relationship between plants and animals. The
language had been clinical in the fashion of such academic
efforts, and yet Endest recalled closing the book and sitting
back in his chair. The notion that he could walk up to a
plant, a tree, even a blackwood, and bless it with his own
breath – a gift of lung-soured air that could enliven that
tree, that could in truth deliver health and vigour, deliver
life itself . . . ah, but that was a wonder indeed, one that, for
a time, calmed the churning maelstrom that was a young
man's soul.
    So long ago, now, and he felt, at times, that he was done
with giving gifts.
    He stood alone in front of the ancient altar. The past
night's modest rain had formed a shallow pool in the cup
of the basalt. It was said the Andii came from the forests
and their natural clearings, born to give breath to the
sacred wood, and that the first fall of his people occurred
the moment they walked out, to set down the first shaped
stone of this city.
    How many failings had there been since? Suruth
Common was the last fragment of the old forest left in all
Kharkanas. Blackwood itself had fed the great forges.
    He had no desire to look westward. More than the fiery
glow disturbed him. The frenzy in those factories – they
were making weapons. Armour. They were readying for
war.
    He had been sent here by the High Priestess. 'Witness ,'
she had said. And so he would. The eyes of the Temple, the
priesthood, must remain open, aware, missing nothing in
these fraught times. That she had chosen him over others –
or even herself – was not a measure of respect. His presence
was political, his modest rank a deliberate expression of the
Temple's contempt.
    'Witness, Endest Silann. But remain silent. You are a presence, do you understand?'
    He did.
    They appeared almost simultaneously, one from the
north, one from the east and one from the south. Three
brothers. Three sons. This was to be a meeting of blood
and yes, they would resent him, for he did not belong.
Indeed, the Temple did not belong. Would they send him
away?
    The trees wept their promise of a new season of life – a
season that would never come, for there was nowhere left
for the filaments to take root – not for scores of leagues
in any direction. The river would take millions, but even
those fine black threads could not float on its waters, and
so what the river took the river kept, buried in the dead
silts of Dorssan Ryl. Our breath was meant to give life, not
take it away. Our breath was a gift, and in that gift the blackwood
found betrayal.
    This was and is our crime, and it was and remains unforgivable.
    'Good evening, priest,' said Andarist, who then added,
'Anomander, it seems you were right.'
    'An easy prediction,' Anomander replied. 'The Temple
watches me the way a rove of rhotes watch a dying ginaf.'
    Endest blinked. The last wild ginaf had vanished a
century past and no longer did the silver-backed herds
thunder across the south plains; and these days roves of
rhotes winged above battlefields and nowhere else – and
no, they did not starve. Are you the last, Lord? Is this
what you are saying? Mother bless me, I never know what
you are saying. No one does. We share language but not
meaning.
    The third brother was silent, his red eyes fixed upon the
forges beneath the western sky.
    'The clash between Drethdenan and Vanut Degalla
draws to an end,' said Andarist. 'It may be time—'
    'Should we be speaking of this?' Silchas Ruin cut in,
finally turning to face Endest Silann. 'None of this is
for the Temple. Especially not some pathetic third level
acolyte.'
    Anomander