Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

Korlat drew a deep breath. Hold hack on the pain, on the loss — just a short while longer. 'With Onearm's Host so badly … damaged … the Malazans won't be bargaining from a position of strength.'

Brood's eyes narrowed on her. 'Korlat,' he said softly, 'as far as I am concerned, the Malazans have earned all they might ask for. If they want it, Coral is theirs.'

Korlat sighed. 'Warlord, the unveiling of Kurald Galain … is a permanent manifestation. The city now lies as much within the Tiste Andii warren as within this world.'

'Aye, meaning the negotiations are properly between Rake and the Malazans. Not me. Tell me, will your Lord claim Coral? Moon's Spawn …'

There was no need to continue. The city within the mountain of rock still held, trapped in its deepest chambers, massive volumes of water, weight that could not be withstood for much longer. Moon's Spawn was dying. It would, she knew, have to be abandoned. A place, our home for so long. Will I grieve? I know not.

'I have not spoken with Anomander Rake, Warlord. I cannot anticipate his disposition.' She turned away, began walking towards the gate.

Brood called after her.

Not yet.

She continued on, beneath the gate's arch, her eyes fixing on the hilltop beyond the shattered corpses carpeting the killing field. Where I will find him. All that is left. His face, gift of memories, now grown cold. I saw the life flee his eyes. That moment of death, of dying. Withdrawing, away from those eyes, withdrawing, back and away. Leaving, leaving me.

Her steps slowed, the pain of loss threatening to overwhelm her.

Dear Mother Dark, do you look down upon me, now? Do you see me, your child? Do you smile, to see me so broken? I have, after all, repeated your fatal errors of old. Yielding my heart, succumbing to the foolish dream — Light's dance, you longed for that embrace, didn't you?

And were betrayed.

You left us, Mother. to eternal silence.

Yet.

Mother Dark, with this unveiling, I feel you close. Was it grief that sent you away, sent you so far from your children? When, in our deadly, young way — our appalling insensitivity — we cursed you. Added another layer to your pain.

These steps. you walked them once.

How can you help but smile?

Rain struck her brow, stung the ragged, open gash of her wound. She halted, looked up, to see Moon's Spawn directly overhead … weeping down upon her …

… and upon the field of corpses surrounding her, and, beyond and to the right, upon thousands of kneeling T'lan Imass. The dead, the abandoned, a wash of deepening colours, as if in the rain the scene, so softly saturated, was growing more solid, more real. No longer the faded tableau of a Tiste Andii's regard. Life, drawn short, to sharpen every detail, flush every colour, to make every moment an ache.

And she could hold back no longer. Whiskeyjack. My love.

Moments later, her own tears joined the salt-laden water running down her face.

In the gate's gloom, Caladan Brood stared out, across the stone bridge, over the mangled plain to where Korlat stood halfway to the hill, surrounded by corpses and shattered K'Chain Che'Malle. Watched as her head tilted back, face slowly lifting to the grey shroud of the rain. The black mountain, fissures widening, groans issuing from the dying edifice, seemed to pause directly over her. A heart, once of stone, made mortal once more.

This image — what he now saw — he knew, with bleak certainty, would never leave him.

Silverfox had walked for what seemed a long time, heedless of direction, insensate to all that surrounded her, until distant movement caught her attention. She now stood on the barren tundra, beneath solid white overcast, and watched the approach of the Rhivi spirits.

A small band, pitifully small, less than forty individuals, insignificant in the distance, almost swallowed by the immense landscape, the sky, this damp air with its unforgiving chill that had settled into her bones like the blood of failure.

Events had occurred. Elsewhere in this nascent realm. She could sense that much — the hail, deluge of memories, born from she knew not where. And though they had struck her with the same indiscriminate randomness as they struck the ground on all sides, she had felt but the faintest hint of all that they had contained.

If a gift, then a bitter one.

If a curse, then so too is life itself a curse. For there were lives within that frozen rain. Entire lives, sent down to strike the flesh of this world, to seep down, to thaw the soil with its fecundity.

But it has nothing to do with me.

None of this. All that I sought to fashion. destroyed. This dreamworld was itself a memory. Ghostworld of Tellann, remembrance of my own world, from long, long ago. Remembrances, taken from the Bonecaster who was there in my refashioning, taken from the Rhivi spirits, the First Clan, taken from K'rul, from Kruppe. Taken from the slumbering land itself — Burn's own flesh.

I myself. possessed nothing. I simply stole.

To fashion a world for my mother, a world where she could be young once more, where she could live out a normal life, growing old through the normal span of seasons.

All that I stole from her, I would give back.

Bitterness filled Silverfox. It had begun with that first barrow, outside Pale. This belief in the righteousness, the efficacy, of theft. Justified by the worthiest of ends.

But ownership bereft of propriety was a lie. All that she hoarded was in turn stripped of value. Memories, dreams, lives.

Gone to dust.

The hapless band of Rhivi spirits drew closer, cautiously, hesitating.

Yes. I understand. What demands will I make of you now? How many more empty promises will I voice? I had a people for you, a people who had long since lost their own gods, their own spirits to whom they had once avowed allegiance, were less than the dust they could make of themselves. A people.

For you.

Lost.

What a lesson for four bound souls — no matchmaker, we four.

She did not know what to tell them — these modest, timid spirits.

'Bonecaster, we greet you.'

Silverfox blinked her eyes clear. 'Elder Spirit. I have-'

'Have you seen?'

She saw then, in all their faces, a kind of wonder. And frowned in reply.

'Bonecaster,' the foremost Rhivi continued, 'we have found something. Not far from here — do you know of what we speak?'

She shook her head.

'There are thrones, Bonecaster. Two thrones. In a long hut of bones and hide.'

Thrones? 'What — why? Why should there be thrones in this realm? Who-?'

The elder shrugged, then offered her a soft smile. 'They await, Bonecaster. We can feel the truth of that. Soon. Soon, will come this warren's true masters.'

'True masters!' Anger flared in Silverfox. 'This realm — it was for you ! Who dares seek to usurp-'

'No,' the spirit's quiet denial cut through her, swept the breath from her lungs. 'Not for us. Bonecaster, we are not powerful enough to command such a world as this. It has grown too vast, too powerful. Do not fear — we do not wish to leave, and we will endeavour to treat with the new masters. I believe they will permit us to remain. Perhaps indeed we will find ourselves pleased to serve them.'

'No!' No! Not how it was supposed to be!

'Bonecaster, there is no need for such strong feelings within you. The shaping continues. The fulfilment of your desires is still possible — perhaps not in the manner you originally intended …'

She no longer heard him. Despair was sundering her soul. As I stole. so it has been stolen from me. There is no injustice here, no crime. Accept the truth.