The Malazan Empire, page 816
It believed it had come to confront its father, but there was no father here. There never had been. It had believed it was chosen to deliver justice, but the 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 every time you defeated me on our tiny field of battle, there on the stained table in that damp, miserable tavern.
You did not imagine how I struggled to hold on to that pride, defeat after defeat, crushing loss after crushing loss.
So now, let us cast aside our bland masks. Laugh, Spinnock Durav, as you watch me lose yet again.
He had not even slowed her down. Blades smashed into him from all sides, three, four at a time. His broken body did not even know where to fall – her attacks were all that kept him standing.
He’d lost his sword.
He might even have lost the arm and hand that had been wielding it. There was no telling. He had no sense beyond this knot of mocking knowledge. This lone inner eye unblinkingly fixed on its pathetic self.
And now, at last, she must have flung away all her weapons, for her hands closed round his throat.
He forced his eyes open, stared into her laughing face—
Oh.
I understand now. It was you laughing.
You, not me. You I was hearing. Yes, I understand now—
That meant that he, why, he’d been weeping. So much for mockery. The truth was, there was nothing left in him but self-pity. Spinnock Durav, look away now. Please, look away.
Her hands tightening round his throat, she lifted him from the ground, held him high. So she could watch his face as she choked the last life from him. Watch, and laugh in his face of tears.
The High Priestess stood with hands to her mouth, too frightened to move, watching the Dying God destroy Endest Silann. He should have crumbled by now, he should have melted beneath that onslaught. And indeed it had begun. Yet, somehow, unbelievably, he still held on.
Making of himself a final, frail barrier between the Tiste Andii and this horrendous, insane god. She cowered in its shadow. It had been hubris, mad hubris, to have believed they could withstand this abomination. Without Anomander Rake, without even Spinnock Durav. And now she sensed every one of her kin being driven down, unable to lift a hand in self-defence, lying with throats exposed, as the poison rain flooded the streets, bubbled in beneath doors, through windows, eating the tiles of roofs as if it was acid, to stream down beams and paint brown every wall. Her kin had begun to feel the thirst, had begun to desire that deadly first sip – as she had.
And Endest Silann held the enemy back.
Another moment.
And then yet another—
In the realm of Dragnipur, every force had ceased fighting. Every force, every face – Draconus, Hood, Iskar Jarak, the Chained, the burning eyes of the soldiers of chaos – all turned to stare at the sky above the wagon.
And at the lone figure standing tall on the mound of bodies.
Where something extraordinary had begun.
The tattooed pattern had lifted free of the tumbled, wrinkled canvas of skins – as if the layer that had existed for all to see was now revealed as but one side, one facet, one single dimension, of a far greater manifestation. Which now rose, unfolding, intricate as a perfect cage, a web of gossamer, glistening like wet strokes of ink suspended in the air around Anomander Rake.
He slowly raised his arms.
Lying almost at Rake’s feet, Kadaspala twisted in a frenzy of joy. Revenge and revenge and yes, revenge.
Stab! Dear child! Now stab, yes and stab and stab—
Ditch, all that remained of him, stared with one eye. He saw an elongated, tattoo-swarmed arm lifting clear, saw the knife in its hand, hovering like a rearing serpent behind Rake’s back. And none of this surprised him.
The child-god’s one purpose. The child-god’s reason to exist.
And he was its eye. There to look upon its soul inward and outward. To feel its heart, and that heart overflowed with life, with exultation. To be born and to live was such a gift! To see the sole purpose, to hold and drive the knife deep—
And then?
And then…it all ends.
Everything here. All of them. These bodies so warm against me. All, betrayed by the one their very lives have fed. Precious memories, host of purest regrets – but what, above all else, must always be chained to each and every soul? Why, regrets, of course. For ever chained to one’s own history, one’s own life story, for ever dragging that creaking, tottering burden…
To win free of those chains of regret is to shake free of humanity itself. And so become a monster.
Sweet child god, will you regret this?
‘No.’
Why not?
‘There…there will be no time.’
Yes, no time. For anyone. Anything. This is your moment of life – your birth, your deed, your death. By this you must measure yourself, in this handful of breaths.
Your maker wants you to kill.
You are born now. Your deed awaits. Your death hovers just beyond it. Child god, what will you do?
And he felt the god hesitate. He felt it awaken to its own self, and to the freedom that such awakening offered. Yes, its maker had sought to shape it. Sire to child, an unbroken stream of hate and vengeance. To give its own imminent death all the meaning it demanded.
Fail in this, and that death will have no meaning at all.
‘Yes. But, if I die without achieving what I am made to do—’
The god could sense the power that had lifted clear now rushing down from this extraordinary Tiste Andii with the silver hair, rushing down along the traceries of the countless bodies – travelling the strands of the vast web. Down, and down, into that Gate.
What was he doing?
And Ditch smiled as he answered. Friend, know this for certain. Whatever Anomander Rake now attempts to do, he does not do it for himself.
And that statement stunned this child god.
Not for himself? Was such a thing possible? Did one not ever choose, first and foremost, for oneself?
For most, yes, that is true. And when these ones pass, they are quickly forgotten. Their every achievement grows tarnished. The recognition comes swift, that they were not greater than anyone else. Not smarter, not braver. Their motives, ah, such sordid things after all. For most, I said, but not this one. Not Anomander Rake.
‘I see. Then, my mortal friend, I…I shall do no less.’
And so, that long arm writhed round, twisting, and the knife stabbed down, down into Kadaspala’s chest.
The blind Tiste Andii shrieked, and his blood poured over the packed bodies.
Slain by his own child. And the web drank deep its maker’s blood.
Someone crawled alongside Ditch. He struggled to focus with his one dying and dying eye. A broad face, the skin flaking off in patches, long thick hair of black slashed through with red. She held a flint knife in one hand.
‘Take it,’ he whispered. ‘Take it quick—’
And so she did.
Agonizing pain, fire stabbing deep into his skull, and then…everything began to fade.
And the child god, having killed, now dies.
Only one man wept for it, red tears streaming down. Only one man even knew what it had done.
Was it enough?
Apsal’ara saw Anomander Rake pause, and then look down. He smiled. ‘Go, with my blessing.’
‘Where?’
‘You will know soon enough.’
She looked deep into his shining eyes, even as they darkened, and darkened, and darkened yet more. Until she realized what she was seeing, and a breath cold as ice rushed over her. She cried out, recalling where she had felt that cold before—
And Apsal’ara, Mistress of Thieves, tossed him the bloody eye of the god.
He caught it one-handed.
‘A keepsake,’ she whispered, and then rolled clear.
For this wagon was no place to be. Not with what was about to happen.
The pattern sank down, through the heaped forms, even as the Gate of Darkness rose up to meet it.
Wander no longer.
Anomander Rake, still standing, head tilted back, arms raised, began to dissolve, shred away, as the Gate took hold of him, as it fed upon him, upon the Son of Darkness. Upon what he desired, what he willed to be.
Witnessing this, Draconus sank down to his knees.
He finally understood what was happening. He finally understood what Anomander Rake had planned, all along – this, this wondrous thing.
Staring upward, he whispered, ‘You ask my forgiveness? When you unravel what I have done, what I did so long ago? When you heal what I wounded, when you mend what I broke?’ He raised his voice to a shout. ‘Rake! There is no forgiveness you must seek – not from me, gods below, not from any of us!’
But there was no way to know if he had been heard. The man that had been Anomander Rake was scattered into the realm of Kurald Galain, on to its own long-sealed path that might – just might – lead to the very feet of Mother Dark.
Who had turned away.
‘Mother Dark,’ Draconus whispered. ‘I believe you must face him now. You must turn to your children. I believe your son insists. He demands it. Open your eyes, Mother Dark. See what he has done! For you, for the Tiste Andii – but not for himself. See! See and know what he has done!’
Darkness awakened, the pattern grasping hold of the Gate itself, and sinking, sinking down, passing beyond Dragnipur, leaving for ever the dread 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.
