A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

those
agonizing uncertainties were gone, every doubt obliterated
by the gift of saemankelyk.
    She had found the shape of the world, every edge clear
and sharp and undeniable. Her thoughts could dance
through it almost effortlessly, evading snags and tears, not
once touching raw surfaces that might scrape, that might
make her flinch.
    The bliss of certainty delivered another gift. She saw before
her a universe transformed, one where contradictions
could be rightfully ignored, where hypocrisy did not exist,
where to serve the truth in oneself permitted easy denial of
anything that did not fit.
    The minuscule mote of awareness that hid within her,
like a snail flinching into its shell, was able to give shape to
this transformation, well recognizing it as genuine revelation,
the thing she had been seeking all along – yet in the
wrong place.
    Salind understood now that the Redeemer was a child
god, innocent, yes, but not in a good way. The Redeemer
possessed no certainty in himself. He was not all-seeing,
but blind. From a distance the two might appear identical,
there in that wide embrace, the waiting arms, the
undefended openness. He forgave all because he could not
see difference , could not even sense who was deserving and
who was not.
    Saemankelyk brought an end to ambiguity. It divided
the world cleanly, absolutely.
    She must give that to him. It would be her gift – the
greatest gift imaginable – to her beloved god. An end to his
ambivalence, his ignorance, his helplessness.
    Soon, the time would come when she would once
again seek him. The pathetic mortal soul standing in her
way would not frustrate her the next time she found her
weapons – no, her righteous blades would cut and slash
him to pieces.
    The thought made her fling her arms into the air as she
whirled. Such joy! She had a gift. It was her duty to deliver it.
    Whether you like it or not.
    No, he could not refuse. If he did, why, she would have
to kill him.
    *
    Bone white, the enormous beasts stood on the ridge,
side on, their heads turned to watch Karsa Orlong as he
cantered Havok ever closer. He sensed his horse tensing
beneath him, saw the ears flick a moment before he
became aware that he was being flanked by more Hounds
– these ones darker, heavier, short-haired excepting one
that reminded him of the wolves of his homeland, that
tracked him with amber eyes.
    'So,' Karsa murmured, 'these are the Hounds of Shadow.
You would play games with me, then? Try for me, and when
we're done few of you will leave this place, and none will be
free of wounds, this I promise you. Havok, see the black one
in the high grasses? Thinks to hide from us.' He grunted a
laugh. 'The others will feint, but that black one will lead
the true charge. My sword shall tap her nose first.'
    The two white beasts parted, one trotting a dozen or so
paces along the ridge, the other turning round and doing
the same in the opposite direction. In the gap now between
them, shadows swirled like a dust-devil.
    Karsa could feel a surge of battle lust within him, his
skin prickling beneath the fixed attention of seven savage
beasts, yet he held his gaze on that smudge of gloom, where
two figures were now visible. Men, one bare-headed and
the other hooded and leaning crooked over a knobby
cane.
    The Hounds to either side maintained their distance,
close enough for a swift charge but not so close as to drive
Havok into a rage. Karsa reined in six paces from the strangers
and eyed them speculatively.
    The bare-headed one was plainly featured, pale as if
unfamiliar with sunlight, his dark hair straight and loose,
almost ragged. His eyes shifted colour in the sunlight, blue
to grey, to green and perhaps even brown, a cascade of indecision
that matched his expression as he in turn studied
the Toblakai.
    The first gesture came from the hooded one with the
hidden face, a lifting of the cane in a half-hearted waver.
'Nice horse,' he said.
    'Easier to ride than a dog,' Karsa replied.
    A snort from the dark-haired man.
    'This one,' said the hooded man, 'resists sorcery,
Cotillion. Though his blood is old, I wonder, will all
mortals one day be like him? An end to miracles. Nothing
but dull, banal existence, nothing but mundane absence of
wonder.' The cane jabbed. 'A world of bureaucrats. Mealy-minded,
sour-faced and miserable as a reunion of clerks. In
such a world, Cotillion, not even the gods will visit. Except
in pilgrimage to depression.'
    'Quaintly philosophical of you, Shadowthrone,'