Midnight Tides & The Bonehunters - By Steven Erikson Page 0,693

blood spilled, were all fragmented – I could read so little.'

What has happened? She wanted to ask that question. Now, cutting through his slow, cautious approach – not caution – he is hedging—

'A small settlement is near the scene – they were the ones who cleaned things up.'

'He is dead.'

'I don't know – there were no bodies, except for horses. One grave, but it had been opened and the occupant exhumed – no, I don't why anyone would do that. In any case, I have lost contact with Cuttet, and that more than anything else is what disturbs me.'

'Lost contact,' she repeated dully. 'Then he is dead, Cotillion.'

'I honestly do not know. There are two things, however, of which I am certain. Do you wish to hear them?'

'Are they relevant?'

'That is for you to decide.'

'Very well.'

'One of the women, Scillara—'

'Yes.'

'She gave birth – she survived to do that at least, and the child is now in the care of the villagers.'

'That is good. What else?'

'Heboric Light Touch is dead.'

She turned at that – but away from him – staring out over the seas, to that distant, murky moon. 'Ghost Hands.'

'Yes. The power – the aura – of that old man – it burned like green fire, it had the wild rage of Treach. It was unmistakable, undeniable—'

'And now it is gone.'

'Yes.'

'There was another woman, a young girl.'

'Yes. We wanted her, Shadowthrone and I. As it turns out, I know she lives, and indeed she appears to be precisely where we wanted her to be, with one crucial difference—'

'It is not you and Shadowthrone who control her.'

'Guide, not control – we would not have presumed control, Apsalar. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of her new master. The Crippled God.' He hesitated, then said, 'Felisin Younger is Sha'ik Reborn.'

Apsalar nodded. 'Like a sword that kills its maker ... there are cycles to justice.'

'Justice? Abyss below, Apsalar, justice is nowhere to be seen in any of this.'

'Isn't it?' She faced him again. 'I sent Cutter away, because I feared he would die if he stayed with me. I sent him away and that is what killed him. You sought to use Felisin Younger, and now she finds herself a pawn in another god's hand. Treach wanted a Destriant to lead his followers into war, but Heboric is killed in the middle of nowhere, having achieved nothing. Like a tiger cub getting its skull crushed – all that potential, that possibility, gone. Tell me, Cotillion, what task did you set Cutter in that company?'

He did not answer.

'You charged him to protect Felisin Younger, didn't you? And he failed. Is he alive? For his own sake, perhaps it is best that he is not.'

'You cannot mean that, Apsalar.'

She closed her eyes. No, I do not mean that. Gods, what am I to do ... with this pain? What am I to do?

Cotillion slowly reached up, his hand – the black leather glove removed – nearing the side of her face. She felt his finger brush her cheek, felt the cold thread that was all that was left of the tear he wiped away. A tear she had not known was there.

'You are frozen,' he said in a soft voice.

She nodded, then shook her head suddenly as everything crumbled inside – and she was in his arms, weeping uncontrollably.

And the god spoke, 'I'll find him, Apsalar. I swear it. I'll find the truth.'

Truths, yes. One after another, one boulder settling down, then another. And another. Blotting out the light, darkness closing in, grit and sand sifting down, a solid silence when the last one is in place. Now, dear fool, try drawing a breath. A single breath.

There were clouds closed fast round the moon. And one by one, gardens died.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Cruel misapprehension, you choose the shape and cast of this wet clay in your hands, as the wheel ever spins

Tempered in granite, this fired shell hardens into the scarred shield of your deeds, and the dark decisions within

Settle hidden in suspension, unseen in banded strata awaiting death's weary arrival, the journey's repast to close you out

We blind grievers raise you high, honouring all you never were and what rots sealed inside follows you to the grave

I stand now among the mourners, displeased by my suspicions as the vessel's dust drifts— oh how I despise funerals.

The Secrets of Clay

Panith Fanal

His eyes opened in the darkness. Lying motionless, he waited until his mind separated the sounds that had awakened him. Two sources, Barathol decided. One distant, one