A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

Not
even the gods knew, she suspected.
    History, she realized, was mostly lost. No matter how
diligent the recorders, the witnesses, the researchers,
most of the past simply no longer existed. Would never be
known. The notion seemed to empty her out somewhere
deep inside, as if the very knowledge of loss somehow
released a torrent of extinction within her own memories
– moments swirling away, never to be retrieved. She set
a finger in one groove etched into the stone, followed its
serpentine track downward as far as she could reach, then
back up again. The first to do so in how long?
    Repeat the old pattern – ignorance matters not – just repeat
it, and so prove continuity.
    Which in turn proves what?
    That in living, one recounts the lives of all those long
gone, long dead, even forgotten. Recounts all the demands of
necessity – to eat, sleep, make love, sicken, fade into death –
and the urges of blessed wonder – a finger tracking the serpent's
path, a breath against stone. Weight and presence and the lure
of meaning and pattern.
    By this we prove the existence of the ancestors. That they
once were, and that one day we will be the same. I, Samar
Dev, once was. And am no more.
    Be patient, stone, another fingertip will come, to follow the
track. We mark you and you mark us. Stone and flesh, stone
and flesh . . .
    Karsa slid down from Havok, paused to stretch out his
back. He had been thinking much of late, mostly about
his people, the proud, naïve Teblor. The ever-tightening
siege that was the rest of the world, a place of cynicism, a
place where virtually every shadow was painted in cruelty,
in countless variations on the same colourless hue. Did
he truly want to lead his people into such a world? Even
to deliver a most poetic summation to all these affairs of
civilization?
    He had seen, after all, the poison of such immersion,
when observing the Tiste Edur in the city of Letheras.
Conquerors wandering bewildered, lost, made useless by
success. An emperor who could not rule even himself.
And the Crippled God had wanted Karsa to take up that
sword. With such a weapon in his hands, he would lead his
warriors down from the mountains, to bring to an end all
things. To become the living embodiment of the suffering
the Fallen One so cherished.
    He had not even been tempted. Again and again, in their
disjointed concourse, the Crippled God had revealed his
lack of understanding when it came to Karsa Orlong. He
made his every gift to Karsa an invitation to be broken in
some fashion. But I cannot be broken. The truth, so simple, so
direct, seemed to be an invisible force as far as the Crippled
God was concerned, and each time he collided with it he was
surprised, dumbfounded. Each time, he was sent reeling.
    Of course, Karsa understood all about being stubborn.
He also knew how such a trait could be fashioned into
worthy armour, while at other times it did little more than
reveal a consummate stupidity. Now, he wanted to reshape
the world, and he knew it would resist him, yet he would
hold to his desire. Samar Dev would call that 'stubborn',
and in saying that she would mean 'stupid'. Like the
Crippled God, the witch did not truly understand Karsa.
    On the other hand, he understood her very well. 'You
will not ride with me,' he said now as she rested against one
of the stones, 'because you see it as a kind of surrender. If
you must rush down this torrent, you will decide your own
pace, as best you can.'
    'Is that how it is?' she asked.
    'Isn't it?'
    'I don't know,' she replied. 'I don't know anything. I had
some long forgotten god of war track me down. Why? What
meaning was I supposed to take from that?'
    'You are a witch. You awaken spirits. They scent you as
easily as you do them.'
    'What of it?'
    'Why?'
    'Why what?' she demanded.
    'Why, Samar Dev, did you choose to become a witch?'
    'That's – oh, what difference does that make?'
    He waited.
    'I was . . . curious. Besides, once you see that the world
is filled with forces – most of which few people ever see, or
even think about – then how can you not want to explore?
Tracing all the patterns, discovering the webs of existence
– it's no different from building a mechanism, the pleasure
in working things out.'
    He grunted. 'So you were curious. Tell me, when you
speak with spirits, when you summon them and they come
to you without coercion – why do you think they do that?
Because, like you, they are curious.'
    She crossed her arms. 'You're saying I'm