Dust of Dreams

wait, you see, for the fates to fit together. I wait for the poisonous beauty.’
    ‘You want me to forgive you—your kind, Toc the Younger?’
    ‘Once, in the city of Mott, I wandered into a market and found myself in front of row upon row of squall apes, the swamp dwellers. I looked into their eyes, Tool, and I saw their suffering, their longing, their terrible crime of living. And for all that, I knew that they were simply not intelligent enough. To refuse forgiveness. You Imass, you are. So. Do not forgive us.
Never
forgive us!’
    ‘Am I to be the weapon of your self-hatred?’
    ‘I wish I knew.’
    In those four words, Tool heard his friend, a man trapped, struggling to recall himself.
    Toc resumed. ‘After the Ritual, well, you chose the wrong enemy for your endless war of vengeance. It would have been more just, don’t you think, to proclaim a war against us humans. Perhaps, one day, Silverfox will come to realize that, and choose for her undead armies a new enemy.’ He then shrugged. ‘If I believed in justice, that is . . . if I imagined that she was capable of seeing clearly enough. That you and you alone, T’lan Imass, are in the position to take on the necessary act of retribution—for those squall apes, for all the so-called lesser creatures that have fallen and ever fall to our slick desires.’
    He speaks the words of the dead. His heart is cold. His single eye sees and does not shy away. He is . . . tormented.
‘Is this what you expected,’ Tool asked, ‘when you died? What of Hood’s Gate?’
    Teeth gleamed. ‘Locked.’
    ‘How can that be?’
    The next arrow split his right knee-cap. Bellowing in agony, Tool collapsed. He writhed, fire tearing up his leg. Pain . . . in so many layers, folding round and round—the wound, the murder of a friendship, the death of love, history skirling up in a plume of ashes.
    Horse hoofs slowly thumped closer.
    Blinking tears from his eyes, Tool stared up at the ravaged, half-rotted face of his old friend.
    ‘Onos Toolan,
I am the lock.
’
    The pain was overwhelming. He could not speak. Sweat stung his eyes, more bitter than any tears.
My friend. The one thing left in me—it is slain. You have murdered it.
    ‘Go back,’ said Toc in a tone of immeasurable weariness.
    ‘I—I cannot walk—’
    ‘That will ease, once you turn around. Once you retrace your route, the farther you get away . . . from me.’
    With blood-smeared hands, Tool prised loose the arrow jutting from his knee. He almost passed out in the wave of agony that followed, and lay gasping.
    ‘Find your children, Onos Toolan. Not of the blood. Of the spirit.’
    There are none, you bastard. As you said, you and your kind killed them all.
Weeping, he struggled to stand, twisting as he turned to face the way he had come. Rock-studded, rolling hills, a grey lowering sky.
You’ve taken it all—
    ‘And we’re far from finished,’ said Toc behind him.
    I now cast away love. I embrace hate.
    Toc said nothing to that.
    Dragging his maimed leg, Tool set out.
     
    Toc the Younger, who had once been Anaster First Born of the Dead Seed, who had once been a Malazan soldier, one-eyed and a son to a vanished father, sat on his undead horse and watched the broken warrior limp to the distant range of hills.
    When, at long last, Tool edged over a ridge and then disappeared behind it, Toc dropped his gaze. His lone eye roved over the matted stains of blood on the dead grasses, the glistening arrows, one broken, the other not, and those jutting from the half-frozen earth. Arrows fashioned by Tool’s own hands, so long ago on a distant plain.
    He suddenly pitched forward, curling up like a gut-stabbed child. A moment later a wretched sob broke loose. His body trembled, bones creaking in dried sockets, as he wept, tearless, leaking nothing but the sounds pushing past his withered throat.
    A voice broke through from a few paces away, ‘Compelling you to such things, Herald, leaves me no pleasure.’
    Collecting himself with a groan, Toc the Younger straightened in the saddle and fixed his eye upon the ancient bonecaster standing now in the place where Tool had been. He bared dull, dry teeth. ‘Your hand was colder than Hood’s own,witch. Do you imagine Hood is pleased at you stealing his Herald? At your using him as you will? This will not go unanswered—’
    ‘I have no reason to fear Hood—’
    ‘
But you have reason to fear me, Olar Ethil!
’
    ‘And how will you find me,