A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

embraced Light, before the ones born of
ashes lifted themselves up and took swords in hand. Scabandari.
Ilgast Rend, Halyd Bahann. Esthala who dreamed of peace.
Kagamandra Tulas Shorn, who did not.
    'I have sent Spinnock Durav away.'
    'Yes, I heard. Sire, I cannot—'
    'I am afraid you have no choice, Endest.'
    'The High Priestess—'
    'Understands, and she will do all she can.'
    So long ago now. Lord, your patience beggars that of gods.
    'There was no purpose worthy enough to breathe life
into our people, was there? It is not history that so assailed
us, although many see it that way. The lessons of futility
can be gathered by anyone with a mind so inclined. Every
triumph hollow, every glory revealed at last to be ephemeral.
But none of that gives cause to wither the spirit. Damage
it, perhaps, yes, but the road we have walked down stands
high above such things. Do you understand that, Endest?'
    'I think I do, sire.'
    'We were murdered by compromises. No, not those that
followed the arrival of Light. Not those born of Shadow.
These things were inevitable. They were, by their very
nature, necessary.'
    'Yes.'
    'The day we accepted her turning away, Endest, was the
day we ran the knives across our own throats.' Anomander
Rake paused, and then said, 'We are an ancient, stubborn
people.' He faced Endest Silann. 'See how long it has taken
to bleed out?'
    And then, to complete the unruly triumvirate, there was the
brood of Osserc. Menandore, and that mess of mixed bloods
to follow: Sheltatha Lore, Sukul Ankhadu, Brevith Dreda.
The others, the ones outside all of that, how they watched on,
bemused, brows darkening with anger. Draconus, you thought
you could give answer to all of us. You were wrong.
    Were you wrong? He found himself staring at Dragnipur,
catching the faintest echo of rumbling wheels, the muted
cries of the suffering, and there, yes, that seething storm of
chaos drawing ever closer.
    'Without the blood of dragons,' Anomander Rake went
on, 'we would all be dust, scattered on the winds, drifting
between the stars themselves. Yes, others might see it
differently, but that cold fever, so sudden in our veins,
so fierce in our minds – the chaos, Endest – gave us the
strength to persist, to cease fearing change, to accept all
that was unknown and unknowable. And this is why you
chose to follow us, each in our time, our place.'
    The chaos in you, yes, a fire on the promontory, a beacon
piercing the profound entropy we saw all around us. And yet,
so few of you proved worthy of our allegiance. So few, Lord,
and fewer with each generation, until now here you stand,
virtually alone.
    Tears were streaming from his eyes now, weeping as did
the obelisk, as did the stone on all sides. The one who was
worth it. The only one.
    'You will find the strength within you, Endest Silann. Of
that I have no doubt.'
    'Yes, sire.'
    'As shall I.' And with that the Son of Darkness reached
out, reclaimed the sword Dragnipur. With familiar ease he
slid the weapon into the scabbard on his back. He faced
Endest and smiled as if the burden he had just accepted
yet again could not drive others to their knees – gods,
ascendants, the proud and the arrogant, all to their knees.
Rake's legs did not buckle, did not even so much as tremble.
He stood tall, unbowed, and in the smile he offered Endest
Silann there was a certainty of purpose, so silent, so
indomitable, so utterly appalling that Endest felt his heart
clench, as if moments from rupturing.
    And his Lord stepped close then, and with one hand
brushed the wetness from one cheek.
    He could see her dancing out there, amidst dust devils and
shards of frost-skinned rock, through shafts of blistering
sunlight and hazy swirls of spinning snow. Blood still
streamed from his wounds and it seemed that would
never cease – that this crimson flow debouched from
some eternal river, and the blood was no longer his own,
but that of the god standing beside him. It was an odd
notion, yet it felt truthful even though he dared not ask
the Redeemer, dared not hear the confirmation from the
god's mouth.
    The crazed weather whirled on out on that plain, and
she moved through it effortlessly, round and round, this
way and that, but not yet drawing closer, not yet coming
for him once more.
    'Why does she wait?' he asked. 'She must see that I
cannot withstand another assault, that I will surely fall.'
    'She would if she could,' the Redeemer replied.
    'What holds her back?'
    'Wounds must heal, memories of pain