A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

seemed uninterested in settling his
attention upon Endest Silann. In the face of his brother's
belligerence, he shrugged. 'This way, Silchas, perhaps we
can ensure the Temple remains . . . neutral.'
    'By unveiling to it all that we intend? Why should the
Temple hold to any particular faith in us? What makes the
three of us more worthy of trust than, say, Manalle, or Hish
Tulla?'
    'There is an obvious answer to that,' said Andarist.
'Priest?'
    He could refuse a reply. He could feign ignorance. He
was naught but a third level acolyte, after all. Instead, he
said, 'You three are not standing here trying to kill each
other.'
    Andarist smiled at Silchas Ruin.
    Who scowled and looked away once again.
    'We have things to discuss,' said Anomander. 'Andarist?'
    'I have already sent representatives to both camps. An
offer to mediate. Veiled hints of potential alliances against
the rest of you. The key will be in getting Drethdenan and
Vanut into the same room, weapons sheathed.'
    'Silchas?'
    'Both Hish and Manalle have agreed to our pact.
Manalle still worries me, brothers. She is no fool—'
    'And Hish is?' laughed Andarist – a maddeningly easy
laugh, given the treachery they were discussing.
    'Hish Tulla is not subtle. Her desires are plain. It is as
they all say: she does not lie. No, Manalle is suspicious.
After all, I am speaking of the greatest crime of all, the
spilling of kin's blood.' He paused, then faced Anomander,
and suddenly his expression was transformed. Unease,
something bewildered and lit with horror. 'Anomander,' he
whispered, 'what are we doing?'
    Anomander's features hardened. 'We are strong enough
to survive this. You will see.' Then he looked at Andarist.
'The one who will break our hearts stands before us.
Andarist, who chooses to turn away.'
    'A choice, was it?' At the heavy silence that followed, he
laughed again. 'Yes, it was. One of us . . . it must be, at least
one of us, and I have no desire to walk your path. I have
not the courage for such a thing. The courage, and the . . .
cruel madness. No, brothers, mine is the easiest task – I am
to do nothing.'
    'Until I betray you,' said Silchas, and Endest was shocked
to see the white-skinned Lord's wet eyes.
    'There is no other way through,' said Andarist.
    Centuries into millennia, Endest Silann would wonder
– and never truly know – if all that followed was as
these three had planned. Courage, Andarist had called it.
And . . . cruel madness – by the Mother, yes – such destruction,
the sheer audacity of the treachery – could they have meant all of that?
    The next time Anomander had met Endest Silann had
been on the bridge at the foot of the Citadel, and in his
words he made it clear that he had not recognized him
as the same man as the one sent to witness his meeting
with his brothers. A strange carelessness for one such as
Anomander. Although, unquestionably, the Lord had
other things on his mind at that moment.
    Endest Silann had delivered to the High Priestess his
account of that fell meeting. And in relating the details
of the betrayal, such as could be culled from what he had
heard – all the implications – he had expected to see outrage
in her face. Instead – and, he would think later, with
prescient symbolism – she had but turned away.
    There had been no storms in the sky then. Nothing to
hint of what would come. The blackwood trees of Suruth
Common had lived for two millennia, maybe longer, and
each season they shed their elongated seeds to the wind.
Yet, when next he looked upon those stately trees, they
would be on fire.
    'You have grown far too quiet, old friend.'
    Endest Silann looked up from the dying flames. Dawn
was fast approaching. 'I was reminded . . . the way that
wood crumbles into dissolution.'
    'The release of energy. Perhaps a better way of seeing it.'
    'Such release is ever fatal.'
    'Among plants, yes,' said Caladan Brood.
    Among plants . . . 'I think of the breath we give them
– our gift.'
    'And the breath they give back,' said the warlord, 'that
burns if touched. I am fortunate, I think,' he continued,
'that I have no appreciation of irony.'
    'It is a false gift, for with it we claim ownership. Like
crooked merchants, every one of us. We give so that we can
then justify taking it back. I have come to believe that this
exchange is the central tenet of our relationship . . . with
everything in the world. Any world. Human, Andii, Edur,
Liosan. Imass, Barghast, Jaghut—'
    'Not Jaghut,' cut in Caladan