The Crippled God

Only upon my rebirth did these visions find me. I see poor Rhulad Sengar lying cut and broken on the blood-spattered floor, crying out to his brothers. I see them turn away. I see my body slumping down against the dais. I see my king sitting lifeless on his throne .
    Could we but have left him there, so useless to resist the puppet-masters who ever gather to symbols of power – are they all so blind as to not see the absurdity of their ambitions? The pathetic venality of all their petty scheming? Grasp those dead limbs, then, and make him do your will .
    I have dreamed the names of a thousand lost gods. Will I ever speak them? Will I break upon this world one last time those names of the fallen? Is that enough, to give remembrance to the dead? A name upon my breath, spoken out loud, a whisper, a bold shout – will a distant soul stir? Find itself once more?
    In speaking a god’s name, do we conjure it into being?
    ‘Brys.’
    ‘Aranict?’
    ‘Did you hear me?’
    ‘I did, and I will heed your warning, my love. But you should bear in mind that, sometimes, solitude is the only refuge left. Solitude … and silence.’
    He saw how his words left her shaken, and was sorry. Shall I by name resurrect a god? Force its eyes to open once more? To see what lies all about us, to see the devastation we have wrought?
    Am I that cruel? That selfish?
    Silence. Tavore, I think I begin to understand you. Must the fallen be made to see what they died for, to see their sacrifice so squandered? Is this what you mean – what you have always meant – by ‘unwitnessed’?
    ‘Now it is you who weep – Errant’s shove, Brys, what a wretched pair we make. Gather yourself, please – we are almost upon them.’
    He drew a shaky breath and straightened in his saddle. ‘I could not have stopped her, Aranict.’
    ‘Did you really expect to?’
    ‘I don’t know. But I think I have figured something out. She gives us silence because she dares not give us anything else. What we see as cold and indifferent is in fact the deepest compassion imaginable.’
    ‘Do you think that is true?’
    ‘I choose to believe it, Aranict.’
    ‘Well enough, then.’
    Brys raised his voice. ‘Bearer!’
    The young man reined in and swung his mount out to the right. Brys and Aranict drew up alongside him.
    The two marines had dismounted, joining a woman, a boy and a girl. The woman was middle-aged, possibly an Awl by birth. The children were Malazans, though clearly unrelated. Had he seen these two before? In the palace? Possibly. Behind them all stood a half-dozen K’Chain Che’Malle, including three of the saddled creatures. Two of the remaining lizards were not as robust, yet bore huge blades instead of hands, while the third one was broader of snout, heavier of girth, and unarmed. Two ragged-looking dogs wandered out from between the legs of the lizards. The humans approached.
    ‘Aranict,’ said Brys under his breath, ‘tell me what you see.’
    ‘Not now,’ she said, her voice hoarse.
    He glanced across to see her setting alight a stick of rustleaf, her hands shaking. ‘Tell me this at least. Shall a prince of Lether relinquish command to these ones?’
    Smoke hissed out, and then, ‘The marines … yes, for one simple reason.’
    ‘Which is?’
    ‘Better them than those two children.’
    I see .
    At five paces away they halted, and the clean-shaven marine was the first to speak. His eyes on the standard, he said, ‘So it’s true.’
    Brys cleared his throat. ‘My brother the king—’
    ‘Has no respect at all for the institutions of the military,’ said the marine, nodding. ‘Hood take me, for that reason alone I’d follow him anywhere. What think you, Stormy?’
    The man scowled, scratched his red beard, and then grunted. ‘Do I have to?’
    ‘Do what? You oaf, I was saying—’
    ‘And I wasn’t listening, so how do I know what you was saying, Gesler? And do I even care? If I did, I’d probably have listened, wouldn’t I?’
    Gesler muttered something, and then said to Brys, ‘Prince, I’d beg you to excuse my companion’s boorish manners, but then he ain’t five years old and I ain’t his dada, so feel welcome to regard him with disgust. We do, all of us here, ain’t that right, Stormy?’
    ‘I ain’t listening.’
    ‘Prince Brys, about the chain of command the Adjunct wants—’
    ‘I am content, Mortal Sword Gesler, to accede to her wishes.’
    ‘Well, we ain’t.’
    ‘Y’got that right,’ Stormy