A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

sword—
    In the Temple of Shadow, in the city of Black Coral that
drowned in poison rain, Clip and the god within him stood
above the huddled form of Endest Silann.
    This game was over. All pleasure in the victory had
palled in the absurd, stubborn resistance of the old man.
    The rings spun, round and round from one hand, as
he drew a dagger with the other. Simple, messy, yes, but
succinct, final.
    And then he saw the floor suddenly awaken with black,
seething strands, forming a pattern, and icy cold breath
rose in a long sigh. The sheets of spilling rain froze the
instant each droplet reached the cold air, falling to shatter
on the heaved cobbles and broken tesserae. And that cold
lifted yet higher.
    The Dying God frowned.
    The pattern was spreading to cover the entire floor of
the altar chamber, swarming outward. It looked strangely
misshapen, as if the design possessed more dimensions
than were visible.
    The entire temple trembled.
    Crouched on a berm at the crest of a forested slope, Spindle
and Monkrat stared up at the sky directly above Black
Coral. As a strange maze-like pattern appeared in the air,
burgeoning out to the sides even as it began sinking down
on to the city.
    They saw the moment when a tendril of that pattern
touched the sleeping dragon perched on its spire, and they
saw it spread its wings out in massive unfolding crimson
fans, saw its head lifting on its long neck, jaws opening.
    And Silanah roared.
    A sound that deafened. A cry of grief, of rage, of unleashed intent .
    It launched itself into that falling pattern, that falling
sky, and sailed out over the city.
    Spindle laughed a vicious laugh. 'Run, Gradithan. Run
all you like! That fiery bitch is hunting you!'
    Aranatha stepped through, Nimander following. Gasping,
he tore his hand free – for her grip had become a thing of
unbearable cold, burning, too deadly to touch.
    He stumbled to one side.
    She had halted at the very edge of an enormous altar
chamber. Where a bizarre, ethereal pattern was raining
down from the domed ceiling, countless linked filaments
of black threads, slowly descending, even as other tendrils
rose from the floor itself.
    And Nimander heard her whisper, 'The Gate. How . . .
oh, my dearest son . . . oh, Anomander . . .'
    Clip stood in the centre of the chamber, and he turned
round upon the arrival of Aranatha and Nimander.
    The rings spun out on their lengths of chain – and then
stopped, caught in the pattern, the chains shivering taut.
    Sudden agony lit Clip's face.
    There was a snap as the looped chain bit through his
index finger – and the rings spun and whirled up and away,
speared in the pattern. Racing along every thread, ever
faster, until they were nothing but blurs, and then even
that vanished.
    Nimander stepped past Aranatha and leapt forward,
straight for Clip.
    Who had staggered to one side, looking down – as if
seeking his severed finger somewhere at his feet. On his
face, shock and pain, bewilderment—
    He had ever underestimated Nimander. An easy mistake.
Mistakes often were.
    So like his sire, so slow to anger, but when that anger
arrived . . . Nimander grasped Clip by the front of his
jerkin, swung him off his feet and in a single, ferocious
surge sent him sprawling, tumbling across the floor.
    Awakening the Dying God. Blazing with rage, it regained
its feet and whirled to face Nimander.
    Who did not even flinch as he prepared to advance to
meet it, unsheathing his sword.
    A fluttering touch on his shoulder stayed him.
    Aranatha – who was no longer Aranatha – stepped past
him.
    But no, her feet were not even touching the floor.
She rose yet higher, amidst streams of darkness that
flowed down like silk, and she stared down upon the
Dying God.
    Who, finding himself face to face with Mother Dark
– with the Elder Goddess in the flesh – quailed . Shrinking
back, diminished.
    She does not reach through – not any more. She is here.
Mother Dark is here.
    And Nimander heard her say, 'Ah, my son . . . I accept.'
    The Gate of Darkness wandered no more. Was pursued no
longer. The Gate of Darkness had found a new home, in
the heart of Black Coral.
    Lying in a heap of mangled flesh and bone, dying, Endest
Silann rose from the river – thing of memory and of truth,
that had kept him alive for so long – and opened his eyes.
The High Priestess knelt at his side, one hand brushing his
cheek. 'How,' she whispered, 'how could he ask this of you?
How could he know—'
    Through his tears, he smiled.