Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) 54
The old woman blinked. “She offers you words to ease your grief, soldier.”
“Meaning?”
“You are to live.”
Paran did not quite trust this turn of events. “What words has she for me? I've never seen her before.”
“Nor has she seen you before. Yet you know each other.”
“No, we don't.”
The old woman's eyes hardened. “Will you hear her words or not? She offers you a gift. Will you throw it back in her face?”
Profoundly uneasy, he said. “No, I suppose not.”
“The child says you need not grieve. The woman you know has not passed through the Arching Trees of Death. Her journey was beyond the lands you can see, beyond those of the spirit that all mortals sense. And now she has returned. You must be patient, soldier. You will meet again, so this child promises.”
“Which wornan?” Paran demanded, his heart pounding.
“The one you thought dead.”
He looked again at the girl. The familiarity returned like a blow to his chest. He staggered back a step. “Not possible,” he whispered.
The girl withdrew, dust swirling. She vanished.
“Wait!” Another cry sounded. The herd lurched into motion, closing in, obscuring the Rhivi. In moments all Paran could see were the backs of the giant beasts, shuffling past. He thought to push among them, but knew it would bring him only death.
“Wait!” the captain shouted again, but the sound of hundreds-thousands-of hoofs on the plain drowned his efforts.
Tattersail!
It was fully an hour before the Bhederin herd's tail end appeared. As the last of the beasts strolled past the captain, he looked around. The wind rolled the dust cloud eastward, over the sloping, humped hills.
Paran climbed into the saddle, swung his mount southward once again. The hills of Gadrobi rose before him. Tattersail, what did you do?
He recalled Toc noting the trail of small prints leading from the scorched pillar that had been all that was left of Bellurdan and Tattersail. Hood's Breath, did you plan such a thing? And why the Rhivi? Reborn, already a child of five, maybe six-are you even mortal any more, woman? Have you ascended? You've found yourself a people, a strange, primitive people-to what end? And when we next meet, how old will you appear to be then?
He thought again about the Rhivi. They'd been driving the herd north, a herd big enough to feed: an army on the march. Caladan Brood-he's on his way to Pale. That is something I don't think Dujek's prepared for. Old Onearm's in trouble.
He had another two hours of riding before sunset. Beyond the Gadrobi Hills was Lake Azur, and the city of Darujhistan. And within the city, Whiskeyjack and his squad. And in that squad, a young woman I've been preparing to meet for three years. The god possessing her-is he even my enemy any more?
The question arrived unbidden, turning his heart cold. Gods, what a journey this has been, and here I had thought to travel this plain unnoticed. A foolish thought. Scholars and mages write endlessly of fell convergences-it seems I am a walking convergence, a lodestone to draw Ascendants. To their peril, it seems. My sword Chance answered those five lances, despite my treatment of one of the Twins. How to explain that? The truth is, my cause has become my own. Not the Adjunct's, not the Empire's. I said I'd rather have no enemies at all-and the old woman saw those as true words. And so, it seems, they are.
Endless surprises, Ganoes Paran. Ride on, see what comes.
The track climbed a hillside and the captain spurred his horse up the slope. Reaching the summit, he yanked hard on the reins. The horse snorted indignantly and swung her head round, eyes rolling. But Paran's attention was elsewhere. He leaned back in the saddle and loosened sword.
A heavily armoured man struggled to his feet beside a small campfire.
Beyond him was a hobbled mule. The man tottered, his weight on one leg, and unsheathed a bastard sword, which he then leaned on as he regarded the captain.
Paran nudged his mount forward, scanning the immediate area. It seemed that the warrior was alone. He brought his horse to a halt with thirty feet between them.
The man spoke in Daru. “I'm in no shape for a fight, but if you want one it's yours.”
Once again Paran found himself thankful for the Adjunct's insistence that he be thoroughly schooled: his reply was as fluent as this native's.
“No. I've lost the taste for it.” He waited, leaning forward in the saddle, then grinned at the mule. “Is that beast a War Mule?”
The man barked a laugh. “I'm sure it thinks it is,” he said, relaxing.