A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

ambition, and with it a self-image
both grandiose and posturing, but they are empty things
in the end.' Then he smiled. 'I do not recall being such a
man.'
    'Why did she leave, Redeemer?'
    The answer was long in coming. 'You had help, I believe.
    And no, I do not know what will come of that. Can you
wait? I may need you again.'
    Seerdomin managed a laugh. 'Like this?'
    'I cannot heal you. But I do not think you will . . . cease.
Yours is a strong soul, Seerdomin. May I sit down beside
you? It has been a long time since I last had someone to
speak to.'
    Well, here I bleed. But there is no pain. 'As long as I can,'
he said, 'you will have someone to speak to.'
    The Redeemer looked away then, so that Seerdomin
could not see his sudden tears.
    'He didn't make it,' Monkrat said, straightening.
    Gradithan glowered down at Seerdomin's corpse. 'We
were so close, too. I don't understand what's happened, I
don't understand at all.'
    He turned slightly and studied the High Priestess
where she knelt on the muddy floor of the tent. Her
face was slack, black drool hanging from her mouth. 'She
used it up. Too soon, too fast, I think. All that wasted
blood . . .'
    Monkrat cleared his throat. 'The visions—'
    'Nothing now,' Gradithan snapped. 'Find some more
kelyk.'
    At that Salind's head lifted, a sudden thirst burning in
her eyes. Seeing this, Gradithan laughed. 'Ah, see how she
worships now. An end to all those doubts. One day, Monkrat, everyone will be like her. Saved.'
    Monkrat seemed to hesitate.
    Gradithan turned back and spat on to Seerdomin's
motionless, pallid visage. 'Even you, Monkrat,' he said.
'Even you.'
    'Would you have me surrender my talents as a mage,
Urdo?'
    'Not yet. But yes, one day, you will do that. Without
regrets.'
    Monkrat set off to find another cask of kelyk.
    Gradithan walked over to Salind. He crouched in front
of her, leaned forward to lick the drool from her lips. 'We'll
dance together,' he said. 'Are you eager for that?'
    He saw the answer in her eyes.
    High atop the tower, in the moment that Silanah stirred
– cold eyes fixed upon the pilgrim encampment beyond the
veil of Night – Anomander Rake had reached out to still
her with the lightest of touches.
    'Not this time, my love,' he said in a murmur. 'Soon. You
will know.'
    Slowly, the enormous dragon settled once more, eyes
closing to the thinnest of slits.
    The Son of Darkness let his hand remain, resting there
on her cool, scaled neck. 'Do not fear,' he said, 'I will not
restrain you next time.'
    He sensed the departure of Spinnock Durav, on a small
fast cutter into the Ortnal beyond Nightwater. Perhaps the
journey would serve him well, a distance ever stretching
between the warrior and what haunted him.
    And he sensed, too, the approach of Endest Silann down
along the banks of the river, his oldest friend, who had one
more task ahead of him. A most difficult one.
    But these were difficult times, he reflected.
    Anomander Rake left Silanah then, beneath Darkness
that never broke.
    North and west of Bastion, Kallor walked an empty road.
    He had found nothing worthwhile in Bastion. The
pathetic remnant of one of Nightchill's lovers, a reminder
of curses voiced long ago, a reminder of how time twisted
everything, like a rope binding into ever tighter knots and
kinks. Until what should have been straight was now a
tangled, useless mess.
    Ahead awaited a throne, a new throne, one that he
deserved. He believed it was taking shape, becoming
something truly corporeal. Raw power, brimming with
unfulfilled promise.
    But the emergence of the throne was not the only thing
awaiting him, and he sensed well that much at least. A
convergence, yes, yet another of those confounded cusps,
when powers drew together, when unforeseen paths suddenly
intersected. When all of existence could change in
a single moment, in the solitary cut of a sword, in a word
spoken or a word left unspoken.
    What would come?
    He needed to be there. In its midst. Such things were
what kept him going, after all. Such things were what made
life worth living.
    I am the High King of Failures, am I not? Who else deserves
the Broken Throne? Who else personifies the misery of the
Crippled God? No, it will be mine, and as for all the rest, well,
we'll see, won't we?
    He walked on, alone once more. Satisfying, to be reminded
– as he had been when travelling in the company
of those pathetic Tiste Andii – that the world was crowded
with idiots. Brainless, stumbling, clumsy with stupid