Memories of Ice

'What is the nature of this opportunity, High King?'

Kallor smiled, then his expression hardened. 'The woman Silverfox … a moment of vulnerability, that is all I ask.'

Gethol slowly bowed. 'I am your Herald, sire, and shall convey your desires to the Crippled God.'

'Tell me,' Kallor said, 'before you go. Does this throne suit the House of Chains, Gethol?'

The Jaghut studied the battered, iron-coloured wood, noted the cracks in its frame. 'It most certainly does, sire.'

'Begone, then.'

The Herald bowed once more, the portal opening behind him. A moment later he stepped back, and was gone.

Smoke from the candle swirled in the wake of the vanishing portal. Kallor drew a deep breath. Adding years and years of renewed vigour. He sat motionless … a hunter on the edge of ambush. Suitably explosive. Suitably deadly.

Whiskeyjack stepped out of the command tent, stood gazing up at the sweep of stars overhead. It had been a long time since he'd felt so weary.

He heard movement behind him, then a soft, long-fingered hand settled on his shoulder, the touch sending waves through him. 'It would be nice,' Korlat murmured, 'to hear good news for a change.'

He grunted.

'I see the worry in your eyes, Whiskeyjack. It's a long list, isn't it? Your Bridgeburners, Silverfox, her mother, and now this assault on the warrens. We are marching blind. So much rests on unknowns. Does Capustan still hold, or has the city fallen? And what of Trotts? And Paran? Quick Ben?'

'I am aware of that list, Korlat,' he rumbled.

'Sorry. I share them, that is all.'

He glanced at her. 'Forgive me, but why? This is not your war — gods below, it's not even your world! Why are you yielding to its needs?' He sighed loudly and shook his head, returning his gaze to the night sky. 'That's a question we asked often, early in the campaigns. I remember, in Blackdog Forest, stumbling over a half-dozen of your kin. A Moranth cusser had taken them out. A squad of regulars was busy looting the bodies. They were cursing — not finding anything of worth. A few knotted strips of coloured cloth, a stream-polished pebble, plain weapons — the kind you could pick up in any market in any city.' He was silent for a moment, then he continued, 'And I remember wondering — what was the story of their lives? Their dreams, their aspirations? Would their kin miss them? The Mhybe once mentioned that the Rhivi took on the task of burying the Tiste Andii fallen … well, we did the same, there in that wood. We sent the regulars packing with boots to the backside. We buried your dead, Korlat. Consigned their souls in the Malazan way …'

Her eyes were depthless as she studied him. 'Why?' she asked quietly.

Whiskeyjack frowned. 'Why did we bury them? Hood's breath! We honour our enemies — no matter who they might be. But the Tiste Andii most of all. They accepted prisoners. Treated those that were wounded. They even accepted withdrawal — not once were we pursued after hightailing it from an unwinnable scrap.'

'And did not the Bridgeburners return the favour, time and again, Commander? And indeed, before long, so did the rest of Dujek Onearm's soldiers.'

'Most campaigns get nastier the longer they drag on,' Whiskeyjack mused, 'but not that one. It got more … civilized. Unspoken protocols …'

'Much of that was undone when you took Pale.'

He nodded. 'More than you know.'

Her hand was still on his shoulder. 'Come with me back to my tent, Whiskeyjack.'

His brows rose, then he smiled and said in a dry tone, 'Not a night to be alone-'

'Don't be a fool!' she snapped. 'I did not ask for company — I asked for you. Not a faceless need that must be answered, and anyone will do. Not that. Am I understood?'

'Not entirely.'

'I wish us to become lovers, Whiskeyjack. Beginning tonight. I wish to awaken in your arms. I would know if you have feelings for me.'

He was silent for a long moment, then he said, 'I'd be a fool not to, Korlat, but I had also considered it even more foolish to attempt any advance. I assumed you were mated to another Tiste Andii — a union no doubt centuries long-'

'And what would be the point of such a union?'

He frowned, startled. 'Well, uh, companionship? Children?'

'Children arrive. Rarely, as much a product of boredom as anything else. Tiste Andii do not find companionship among their own kind. That died out long ago, Whiskeyjack. Yet even rarer is the occasion of a Tiste Andii emerging from the darkness, into the mortal world, seeking a reprieve from. from-'

He set a finger to her lips. 'No more. I am honoured to accept you, Korlat. More than you will ever realize, and I will seek to be worthy of your gift.'

She shook her head, eyes dropping. 'It is a scant gift. Seek my heart and you may be disappointed in what you find.'

The Malazan stepped back and reached for his belt-pouch. He untied it, upended the small leather sack into one cupped hand. A few coins fell out, then a small, bedraggled, multicoloured knot of cloth strips, followed by a lone dark, smooth pebble. 'I'd thought,' he said slowly, eyes on the objects in his hand, 'that one day I might have the opportunity to return what was clearly of value to those fallen Tiste Andii. All that was found in that search … I realized — even then — that I could do naught but honour them.'

Korlat closed her hand over his, trapping the objects within their joined clasp. She led him down the first row of tents.

The Mhybe dreamed. She found herself clinging to the edge of a precipice, white-knuckled hands gripping gnarled roots, the susurration of trickling dirt dusting her face as she strained to hold on.

Below waited the Abyss, racked with the storm of dismembered memories, streamers of pain, fear, rage, jealousy and dark desires. That storm wanted her, was reaching up for her, and she was helpless to defend herself.

Her arms were weakening.

A shrieking wind wrapped around her legs, yanked, snatched her away, and she was falling, adding her own scream to the cacophony. The winds tossed her this way and that, twisting, tumbling-

Something hard and vicious struck her hip, glanced away. Air buffeted her hard. Then the hard intrusion was back — talons closing around her waist, scaled, cold as death. A sharp tug snapped her head back, and she was no longer falling, but rising, carried higher and higher.

The storm's roar faded below her, then dwindled away to one side.

The Mhybe twisted her head, looked up.

An undead dragon loomed above her, impossibly huge. Desiccated, dried flaps of skin trailing from its limbs, its almost translucent wings thundering, the creature was bearing her away.

She turned to study what lay below.

A featureless plain stretched out beneath her, dun brown. Long cracks in the earth were visible, filled with dully glowing ice. She saw a darker patch, ragged at its edges, flow over a hillside. A herd. I have walked that land before. Here, in my dreams. there were footprints.

The dragon banked suddenly, crooked its wings, and began a swift spiral earthward.

She found herself wailing — was shocked to realize that it was not terror she was feeling, but exhilaration. Spirits above, this is what it is to fly! Ah, now I know envy in truth!

The land rushed up to meet her. Moments before what would have been a fatal impact, the dragon's wings snapped wide, caught the air, then, the leg directly above curling upward to join its twin, the creature glided silently an arm's length above the loamy ground. Forward momentum abated. The leg lowered, the talons releasing her.

She landed with barely a thump, rolled onto her back, then sat up to watch the enormous dragon rising once more, wings thundering.

The Mhybe looked down and saw a youthful body — her own. She cried out at the cruelty of this dream. Cried out again, curling tight on the cool, damp earth.