Memories of Ice

Keruli's smile was benign, unperturbed. 'Dear Kallor, how you've withered under your curse. Do you still cart that meaningless throne with you? Yes, I had guessed as much-'



'I thought it was you,' Kallor hissed. 'Such a paltry disguise-'



'Issues of physical manifestation have proved problematic.'



'You've lost your power.'



'Not entirely. It has … evolved, and so I am forced to adjust, and learn.'



The warrior reached for his sword. 'In other words, I could kill you now-'



'I am afraid not,' Keruli sighed. 'Only in your dreams, perhaps. But then, you no longer dream, do you, Kallor? The Abyss takes you into its embrace each night. Oblivion, your own personal nightmare.'



Without turning, Brood rumbled, 'Remove your hand from your weapon, Kallor. My patience with you has stretched to its limit.'



'This is no priest sitting before you, Warlord!' the warrior rasped. 'It is an Elder God! K'rul himself.'



'I had gathered as much,' Brood sighed.



For a half-dozen heartbeats no-one spoke, and Itkovian could almost hear the grating, jarring shift of power. An Elder God was among them. Seated, expression benign, at this table.



'A limited manifestation,' Keruli said, then, 'to be more precise.'



'It had better be,' Gruntle interjected, his feline eyes fixed squarely on him, 'given Harllo's fate.'



Sorrow flitted across the Elder God's smooth, round features. 'Profoundly so, at the time, I am afraid. I did all that I could, Gruntle. I regret that it proved insufficient.'



'So do I.'



'Well!' Rath'Shadowthrone snapped. 'You can hardly sit on the Mask Council, then, can you?'



The Malazan named Whiskeyjack burst out laughing, the sound startling everyone at the table.



Stonny twisted in her seat to the High Priest of Shadow. 'Does your god truly know how small your brain really is? What is the issue? Elder Gods don't know the secret handshake? His mask is too realistic?'



'He's immortal, you slut!'



'Kind of guarantees seniority,' Gruntle commented. 'Eventually…'



'Do not make light of this, eater of rats!'



'And if you dare throw that word again at Stonny, I will kill you,' the Daru said. 'As for making light, it is hard not to. We're all trying to swallow the implications of all this. An Elder God has stepped into the fray … against what we'd thought to be a mortal empire — by the Abyss, what have we got ourselves into? But you, your first and solitary thought is fixated on membership in your paltry, over-inflated council. Shadowthrone must be cringing right now.'



'He's likely used to it,' Stonny grated, sneering at the High Priest, 'when it comes to this bag of slime.'



Rath'Shadowthrone gaped at her.



'Let's get back to the task before us,' Brood said. 'Your words are accepted, K'rul. The Pannion Domin concerns all of us. As gods and priests, no doubt you can find your own roles in countering whatever threats are manifesting against the pantheon and the warrens — though we both know that the source of those threats is not directly associated with the Pannion Seer. My point is, we are here to discuss the organization of the forces that will now march with us south of the river, into the heart of the Domin. Mundane considerations, but essential none the less.'



'Accepted,' K'rul replied. 'Provisionally,' he added.



'Why provisionally?'



'I anticipate a few masks coming off in these proceedings, Warlord.'



Humbrall Taur cleared his throat. 'The course is simple enough,' he growled. 'Cafal.'



His son nodded. 'A division of forces, lords. One to Setta, the other to Lest. Convergence at Maurik, then onward to Coral. The White Face Barghast shall march with Onearm's Host, for it was by their efforts that we are here and my father likes this man's sense of humour' — he gestured towards Whiskeyjack, whose brows rose — 'as do our gods. It is further advisable that the Grey Swords, now recruiting from the Tenescowri, be in the other army, for the White Faces will not abide said recruits.'



The company's new Shield Anvil spoke. 'Agreeable, assuming Caladan Brood and his disparate forces can stomach our presence.'



'Can you truly find anything worthwhile in such creatures?' Brood asked her.



'We are all worthwhile, sir, once we assume the burden of forgiveness and the effort of absolution.' She looked over then and met Itkovian's eyes.



And this is my lesson? he wondered. Then why am I both proud and pained by her words? No, not her words, precisely. Her faith. A faith that, to my sorrow, I have lost. This is envy you feel, sir. Discard it.