A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

one named Clip
– who had never seen justice – did not understand its
true meaning, which ever belonged solely and exclusively
within the cage of one's own soul.
    No, the god's need for Clip was coming to an end. This
vessel would be given over to saemankelyk, no different from
all the others. To dance, to lie above the High Priestess and
gush black semen into her womb – a deed without pleasure,
for all pleasure was consumed by the Dying God's own
blood, by the sweet kelyk. And she would swell with the
immortal gifts a thousand times, ten thousand times.
    The sweetest poison, after all, is the one eagerly shared.
    The god advanced on the kneeling old man. Time to
kill the fool.
    Aranatha's hand was cool and dry in Nimander's grasp
as she led him through an unknown realm that left him
blind, stumbling, like a dog beaten senseless, the leash of
that hand tugging him on and on.
    'Please,' he whispered, 'where are we going?'
    'To battle,' she replied, and her voice was almost unrecognizable.
    Nimander felt a tremor of fear. Was this even Aranatha?
Perhaps some demon had taken her place – yet the hand,
yes, he knew it. Unchanged, so familiar in its ethereal
touch. Like a glove with nothing in it – but no, he could
feel it, firm, solid. Her hand, like everything else about her,
was a mystery he had come to love.
    The kiss she had given him – what seemed an eternity
ago – he could feel it still, as if he had tasted something
alien, something so far beyond him that he had no hope of
ever understanding, of ever recognizing what it might be.
A kiss, sweet as a blessing – but had it been Aranatha who
had blessed him?
    'Aranatha—'
    'We are almost there – oh, will you defend me, Nimander?
I can but reach through, not far, with little strength. It is
all I have ever been able to do. But now . . . she insists. She commands.'
    'Who?' he asked, suddenly chilled, suddenly shivering.
'Who commands you?'
    'Why, Aranatha.'
    But then – 'Who – who are you?'
    'Will you defend me, Nimander? I do not deserve it. My
errors are legion. My hurt I have made into your curse, a
curse upon every one of you. But we are past apologies. We
stand in the dust of what's done.'
    'Please—'
    'I do not think enough of me can reach through – not
against him . I am sorry. If you do not stand in his way, I
will fall. I will fail. I feel in your blood a whisper of . . .
someone. Someone dear to me. Someone who might have
withstood him .
    'But he does not await us. He is not there to defend me.
What has happened? Nimander, I have only you.'
    The small hand, that had felt dry and cool and so oddly
reassuring in its remoteness, now felt suddenly frail, like
thin porcelain.
    She does not guide me.
    She holds on.
    He sought comprehension from all that she had said. The
blood of someone dear. She cannot reach through, not enough
to make her powerful enough against Clip, against the Dying
God. She – she is not Aranatha.
    'Nimander, I have only you.'
    'We stand in the dust of what's done.'
    'Nimander, we have arrived.'
    Tears streamed down Seerdomin's ravaged face. Overwhelmed
by the helplessness, by the futility of his efforts
against such an enemy, he rocked to every blow, staggered
in retreat, and if he was laughing – and gods, he was – there
was no humour in that terrible sound.
    He hadn't had much pride to begin with – or so he had
made his pose, there before the Redeemer, one of such
humility – but no soldier with any spine left did not hold
to a secret conviction of prowess. And although he had not
lied when he'd told himself he was fighting for a god he did
not believe in, well, a part of him was unassailed by that
particular detail. As if it'd make no difference. And in that
was revealed the secret pride he had harboured.
    He would surprise her. He would astonish her by resisting
far beyond what she could have anticipated. He would
fight the bitch to a standstill.
    How grim, how noble, how poetic. Yes, they would sing
of the battle, all those shining faces in some future temple
of white, virgin stone, all those shining eyes so pleased to
share heroic Seerdomin's triumphant glory.
    He could not help but laugh.
    She was shattering him piece by pathetic piece. It was a
wonder any part of his soul was left that could still recognize
itself.
    See me, Spinnock Durav, old friend. Noble friend. And let
us share this laugh.
    At my stupid posing.
    I am mocked, friend, by my own pride. Yes, do laugh, as
you so wanted to do each and