A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

final,
fading thought was: Nimander . . . guileless? Oh, but you
don't . . . And then there was nothing.
    The nothing that no priest dared speak of, that no holy
scripture described, that no seer or prophet set forth in
ringing proclamation. The nothing, this nothing, it is the
soul in waiting.
    Comes death, and now the soul waits.
    Aranatha opened her eyes, sat up, then reached out to
touch Nimander's shoulder. He awoke, looked at her with a
question in his eyes.
    'He has killed Kedeviss,' she said, the words soft as a
breath.
    Nimander paled.
    'She was right,' Aranatha went on, 'and now we must be
careful. Say nothing to anyone else, not yet, or you will see
us all die.'
    'Kedeviss.'
    'He has carried her body to a crevasse, and thrown her
into it, and now he makes signs on the ground to show her
careless steps, the way the edge gave way. He will come to
us in shock and grief. Nimander, you must display no suspicion,
do you understand?'
    And she saw that his own grief would sweep all else aside
– at least for now – which was good. Necessary. And that
the anger within him, the rage destined to come, would be
slow to build, and as it did she would speak to him again,
and give him the strength he would need.
    Kedeviss had been the first to see the truth – or so it
might have seemed. But Aranatha knew that Nimander's
innocence was not some innate flaw, not some fatal weakness.
No, his innocence was a choice he had made. The
very path of his life. And he had his reasons for that.
    Easy to see such a thing and misunderstand it. Easy to
see it as a failing, and then to believe him irresolute.
    Clip had made this error from the very beginning. And
so too this Dying God, who knew only what Clip believed,
and thought it truth.
    She looked down and saw tears held back, waiting for
Clip's sudden arrival with his tragic news, and Aranatha
nodded and turned away, to feign sleep.
    Somewhere beyond the camp waited a soul, motionless as
a startled hare. This was sad. Aranatha had loved Kedeviss
dearly, had admired her cleverness, her percipience.
Had cherished her loyalty to Nimander – even though
Kedeviss had perhaps suspected the strange circumstances
surrounding Phaed's death, and had seen how Phaed and
her secrets haunted Nimander still.
    When one can possess loyalty even in the straits of full,
brutal understanding, then that one understands all there
is to understand about compassion.
    Kedeviss, you were a gift. And now your soul waits, as it
must. For this is the fate of the Tiste Andii. Our fate. We will
wait.
    Until the wait is over.
    *
    Endest Silann stood with his back to the rising sun. And
to the city of Black Coral. The air was chill, damp with
night's breath, and the road wending out from the gates
that followed the coastline of the Cut was a bleak, colourless
ribbon that snaked into stands of dark conifers half a
league to the west. Empty of traffic.
    The cloak of eternal darkness shrouding the city blocked
the sun's stretching rays, although the western flanks of the
jumbled slope to their right was showing gilt edges; and far
off to the left, the gloom of the Cut steamed white from the
smooth, black surface.
    'There will be,' said Anomander Rake, 'unpleasantness.'
    'I know, Lord.'
    'It was an unanticipated complication.'
    'Yes, it is.'
    'I will walk,' said Rake, 'until I reach the tree line. Out of
sight, at least until then.'
    'Have you waited too long, Lord?'
    'No.'
    'That is well, then.'
    Anomander Rake rested a hand on Endest's shoulder.
'You have ever been, my friend, more than I deserve.'
    Endest Silann could only shake his head, refuting that.
    'If we are to live,' Rake went on, 'we must take risks. Else
our lives become deaths in all but name. There is no struggle
too vast, no odds too overwhelming, for even should we fail
– should we fall – we will know that we have lived.'
    Endest nodded, unable to speak. There should be tears
streaming down his face, but he was dry inside – his skull,
behind his eyes, all . . . dry. Despair was a furnace where
everything had burned up, where everything was ashes, but
the heat remained, scalding, brittle and fractious.
    'The day has begun.' Rake withdrew his hand and pulled
on his gauntlets. 'This walk, along this path . . . I will take
pleasure in it, my friend. Knowing that you stand here to
see me off.'
    And the Son of Darkness set out.
    Endest Silann watched. The warrior with his long silver
hair flowing, his leather cloak flaring out. Dragnipur