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Remaining silent, then, at the last, his father, his mother.

He could remember when last he saw them, the day he had sent them to dwell chained in the belly of this city. Oh, that had been so clever, hadn’t it?Advertisement

But moments earlier one of the Chancellor’s guards had begged audience. A terrible event to relate. The Letherii’s voice had quavered like a badly strung lyre. Tragedy. An error in rotation among the jailers, a week passing without anyone descending to their cells. No food, but, alas, plenty of water.

A rising flood, in fact.

‘My Emperor. They were drowned. The cells, chest-deep, sire. Their chains… not long enough. Not long enough. The palace weeps. The palace cries out. The entire empire, sire, hangs its head.

‘Chancellor Triban Gnol is stricken, sire. Taken to bed, unable to give voice to his grief.’

Rhulad could stare down at the trembling man, stare down, yes, with the blank regard of a man who has known death again and again, known past all feeling. And listen to these empty words, these proper expressions of horror and sorrow.

And in the Emperor’s mind there could be these words: I sent them down to be drowned. With not a single wager laid down.

The rising waters, this melting, this sinking palace. This Eternal Domicile. I have drowned my father. My mother. He could see those cells, the black flood, the gouges in the walls where they had clawed at the very ends of those chains. He could see it all.

And so they stood. Silent. Flesh rotted and bloated with gases, puddles of slime spreading round their white, wrinkled feet. A father on whose shoulders Rhulad had ridden, shrieking with laughter, a child atop his god as it ran down the strand with limitless power and strength, with the promise of surety like a gentle kiss on the child’s brow.

A mother-no, enough. I die and die. More deaths, yes, than anyone can imagine. 1 die and I die, and 1 die.

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But where is my peace?

See what awaits me? See them!

Rhulad Sengar, Emperor of a Thousand Deaths, sat alone on his throne, dreaming peace. But even death could not offer that.

At that moment his brother, Trull’ Sengar, stood near Onrack, the emlava cubs squalling in the dirt behind them, and watched with wonder as Ben Adaephon Delat, a High Mage of the Malazan Empire, walked out across the shallow river. Unmindful of the glacial cold of that stream that threatened to leave numb his flesh, his bones, the very sentiments of his mind-nothing could deter him from this.

Upon seeing the lone figure appear from the brush on the other side, Quick Ben had halted. And, after a long moment, he had smiled, and under his breath he had said something like: ‘Where else but here? Who else but him?’ Then, with a laugh, the High Mage had set out.

To meet an old friend who himself strode without pause into that broad river.

Another Malazan.

Beside Trull, Onrack settled a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘You, my friend, weep too easily.’

‘I know,’ Trull sighed. ‘It’s because, well, it’s because I dream of such things. For myself; My brothers, my family. My people. The gifts of peace, Onrack-this is what breaks me, again and again.’

‘I think,’ said Onrack, ‘you evade a deeper truth.’

‘I do?’

‘Yes. There is one other, is there not? Not a brother, not kin, not even Tiste Edur. One who offers another kind of peace, for you, a new kind. And this is what you yearn for, and see the echo of, even in the meeting of two friends such as we witness here.

‘You weep when I speak of my ancient love.

‘You weep for this, Trull Sengar, because your love has not been answered, and there is no greater anguish than that.’

‘Please, friend. Enough. Look. I wonder what they are saying to each other?’

‘The river’s flow takes their words away, as it does us all.’ Onrack’s hand tightened on Trull’s shoulder. ‘Now, my friend, tell me of her.’

Trull Sengar wiped at his eyes, then he smiled. ‘There was, yes, a most beautiful woman…’

Book Four. Reaper’s Gale

I went in search of death

In the cast down wreckage

Of someone’s temple nave

I went in search among flowers

Nodding to the wind’s words

Of woeful tales of war

I went among the blood troughs

Behind the women’s tents

All the children that never were

And in the storm of ice and waves

I went in search of the drowned

Among bony shells and blunt worms

Where the grains swirled

Each and every one crying out its name its life its loss

I went on the current roads pqdm.com