House of Chains

all sucked at that same bitter tit.’

He knew his tears had broken from his eyes, were running down his cheeks, yet could do nothing to stem them.

‘And now, L’oric,’ she went on after a moment, ‘we are all revealed. Every one of us here. We are all orphans. Think on it. Bidithal, who lost his temple, his entire cult. The same for Heboric. Korbolo Dom, who once stood as an equal in rank with great soldiers, like Whiskeyjack, and Coltaine. Febryl-did you know he murdered his own father and mother? Toblakai, who has lost his own people. And all the rest of us here, L’oric-we were children of the Malazan Empire, once. And what have we done? We cast off the Empress, in exchange for an insane goddess who dreams only of destruction, who seeks to feed on a sea of blood…’

‘And,’ he asked softly, ‘am I too an orphan?’

She had no need to answer, for they both heard the truth in his own pained words.

Osric…

‘Leaving only… Leoman of the Flails.’ Felisin took the wine from his hands. ‘Ah, Leoman. Our flawed diamond. I wonder, can he save us all? Will he get the chance? Among us, only he remains… unchained. No doubt the goddess claims him, but it is an empty claim-you do see that, don’t you?’

He nodded, wiping at his eyes. ‘And I believe I have led Sha’ik to that realization, as well.’

‘She knows, then, that Leoman is our last hope?’

His sigh was ragged. ‘I think so…’

They were silent for a time. Night had arrived, and the fire had died down to ashes, leaving only starlight to illuminate the glade.

It seemed, then, that eyes of stone had slowly assumed life, a crescent row fixed now upon the two of them. A regard avid, gleaming with hunger. L’oric’s head snapped up. He stared out at the ghostly faces, then at the two Toblakai figures, then settled once more, shivering.

Felisin laughed softly. ‘Yes, they do haunt one, don’t they?’

L’oric grunted. ‘A mystery here, in Toblakai’s creations. Those faces-they are T’lan Imass. Yet…’

‘He thought them his gods, yes. So Leoman told me, once, beneath the fumes of durhang. Then he warned me to say nothing to Toblakai.’ She laughed again, louder this time. ‘As if I would. A fool indeed, to step between Toblakai and his gods.’

‘There is nothing simple about that simple warrior,’ L’oric murmured.

‘Just as you are not simply a High Mage,’ she said. ‘You must act soon, you know. You have choices to make. Hesitate too long and they will be made for you, to your regret.’

‘I could well say the same to you in return.’

‘Well then, it seems we still have more to discuss this night. But first, let us eat-before the wine makes us drunk.’

Sha’ik recoiled, staggered back a step. The breath hissed from her in a gust of alarm-and pain. A host of wards swirled around Heboric’s abode, still flickering with the agitation her collision had triggered.

She bit down on her outrage, pitched her voice low as she said, ‘You know who it is who has come, Heboric. Let me pass. Defy me, and I will bring the wrath of the goddess down, here and now.’

A moment’s silence, then, ‘Enter.’

She stepped forward. There was a moment’s pressure, then she stumbled through, brought up short against the crumbled foundation wall. A sudden… absence. Terrifying, bursting like the clearest light where all had been, but a moment earlier, impenetrable gloom. Bereft… yet free. Gods, free-the light-‘Ghost Hands!’ she gasped. ‘What have you done?’

‘The goddess within you, Sha’ik,’ came Heboric’s words, ‘is not welcome in my temple.’

Temple? Roaring chaos was building within her, the vast places in her mind where the Whirlwind Goddess had been now suddenly vacant, filling with the dark, rushing return of… of all that I was. Bitter fury grew like a wildfire as memories rose with demonic ferocity to assail her. Beneth. You bastard. You closed your hands around a child, but what you shaped was anything but a woman. A plaything. A slave to you and your twisted, brutal world.

I used to watch that knife in your hands, the flickering games that were your idle habits. And that’s what you taught me, isn’t it? Cutting for fun and blood. And oh, how I cut. Baudin. Kulp. Heboric-

A physical presence beside her now, the solid feel of hands-jade green, black-barred-a figure, squat and wide and seemingly beneath the shadow of fronds-no, tattoos. Heboric…

‘Inside, lass. I have made you… bereft. An unanticipated consequence of forcing the goddess from your soul. Come.’

And then he was guiding her into the tent’s confines. The air chill and damp, a single small oil lamp struggling against the gloom-a flame that suddenly moved as he lifted the lamp and brought it over to a brazier, where he used its burning oil to light the bricks of dung. And, as he worked, he spoke. ‘Not much need for light… the passage of time… before tasked with sanctioning a makeshift temple… what do I know of Treach, anyway?’

She was sitting on cushions, her trembling hands held before the brazier’s growing flames, furs wrapped about her. At the name ‘Treach’ she started, looked up.

To see Heboric squatting before her. As he had squatted that day, so long ago now, in Judgement’s Round. When Hood’s sprites had come to him… to foretell of Fener’s casting down. The flies would not touch his spiral tattoos. I remember that. Everywhere else, they swarmed like madness. Now, those tattoos had undergone a transformation. ‘Treach.’

His eyes narrowed on hers-a cat’s eyes, now-he can see! ‘Ascended into godhood, Sha’ik-’

‘Don’t call me that. I am Felisin Paran of House Paran.’ She hugged herself suddenly. ‘Sha’ik waits for me… out there, beyond this tent’s confines-beyond your wards.’

‘And would you return to that embrace, lass?’

She studied the brazier’s fire, whispered, ‘No choice, Heboric.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

A thunderous shock bolted her upright. ‘Felisin!’

‘What?’

‘Felisin Younger! I have not… not seen her! Days? Weeks? What-where is she!’

Heboric’s motion was feline as he straightened, fluid and precise. ‘The goddess must know, lass-’

‘If she does, she’s not told me.’

‘But why would…’

She saw a sudden knowledge in his eyes, and felt her own answering stab of fear. ‘Heboric, what do you-’

Then he was guiding her to the tent flap, speaking as he drove her back step by step. ‘We spoke, you and I, and all is well. Nothing to concern yourself over. The Adjunct and her legions are coming and there is much to do. As well, there are the secret plans of Febryl to keep an eye on, and for that you must rely upon Bidithal-’

‘Heboric!’ She struggled against him, but he would not relent. They reached the flap and he pushed her outside. ‘What are you-’ A hard shove and she stumbled back.

Through a flare of wards.

Sha’ik slowly righted herself. She must have stumbled. Oh yes, a conversation with Ghost Hands. All is well. I’m relieved by that, for it allows me to think on more important things. My nest of betrayers, for example. Must have words with Bidithal again tonight. Yes…

She turned from the ex-priest’s tent and made her way back to the palace.

Overhead, the stars of the desert sky were shimmering, as they often did when the goddess had come close… Sha’ik wondered what had drawn her this time. Perhaps no more than casting a protective eye on her Chosen One…

She was unmindful-as was her goddess-of the barely visible shape that slipped out from the entrance to Heboric’s tent, flowing in a blur into the nearest shadows. Unmindful, also, of the scent that barbed shape now followed.

Westward, to the city’s edge, and then onto the trail, padding between the stone trees, towards a distant