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The Army of the Apocalypse was watching as well, Sha’ik suspected, though she did not turn about.
She is gone. I have been… abandoned.
I was Sha’ik, once. Now, I am Felisin once more. And here, walking towards me, is the one who betrayed me. My sister.
She remembered watching Tavore and Ganoes playing with wooden swords. Beginning on that path to deadly familiarity, to unthinking ease wielding the weight of that weapon. Had the world beyond not changed-had all stood still, the way children believed it would-she would have had her turn. The clack of wood, Ganoes laughing and gently instructing her-there was joy and comfort to her brother, the way he made teaching subservient to the game’s natural pleasures. But she’d never had the chance for that.
No chance, in fact, for much of anything that could now return to her, memories warm and trusting and reassuring.
Instead, Tavore had dismembered their family. And for Felisin, the horrors of slavery and the mines.
But blood is the chain that can never break.
Tavore was now twenty strides away. Drawing out her otataral sword.
And, though we leave the house of our birth, it never leaves us.
Sha’ik could feel the weight of her own weapon, dragging hard enough to make her wrist ache. She did not recall unsheathing it.
Beyond the mesh and through the slits of the visor, Tavore strode ever closer, neither speeding up nor slowing.
No catching up. No falling back. How could there be? We are ever the same years apart. The chain never draws taut. Never slackens. Its length is prescribed. But its weight, oh, its weight ever varies .
She was lithe, light on her feet, achingly economical. She was, for this moment, perfect.
But, for me, the blood is heavy. So heavy.
And Felisin struggled against it-that sudden, overwhelming weight. Struggled to raise her arms-unthinking of how that motion would be received.
Tavore, it’s all right -
A thunderous clang, a reverberation jolting up her right arm, and the sword’s enervating weight was suddenly gone from her hand.
Then something punched into her chest, a stunning blossom of cold fire piercing through flesh, bone-and then she felt a tug from behind, as if something had reached up, clasped her hauberk and yanked on it-but it was just the point, she realized. The point of Tavore’s sword, as it drove against the underside of the armour shielding her back.
Felisin looked down to see that rust-hued blade impaling her.
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The Army of the Apocalypse was watching as well, Sha’ik suspected, though she did not turn about.
She is gone. I have been… abandoned.
I was Sha’ik, once. Now, I am Felisin once more. And here, walking towards me, is the one who betrayed me. My sister.
She remembered watching Tavore and Ganoes playing with wooden swords. Beginning on that path to deadly familiarity, to unthinking ease wielding the weight of that weapon. Had the world beyond not changed-had all stood still, the way children believed it would-she would have had her turn. The clack of wood, Ganoes laughing and gently instructing her-there was joy and comfort to her brother, the way he made teaching subservient to the game’s natural pleasures. But she’d never had the chance for that.
No chance, in fact, for much of anything that could now return to her, memories warm and trusting and reassuring.
Instead, Tavore had dismembered their family. And for Felisin, the horrors of slavery and the mines.
But blood is the chain that can never break.
Tavore was now twenty strides away. Drawing out her otataral sword.
And, though we leave the house of our birth, it never leaves us.
Sha’ik could feel the weight of her own weapon, dragging hard enough to make her wrist ache. She did not recall unsheathing it.
Beyond the mesh and through the slits of the visor, Tavore strode ever closer, neither speeding up nor slowing.
No catching up. No falling back. How could there be? We are ever the same years apart. The chain never draws taut. Never slackens. Its length is prescribed. But its weight, oh, its weight ever varies .
She was lithe, light on her feet, achingly economical. She was, for this moment, perfect.
But, for me, the blood is heavy. So heavy.
And Felisin struggled against it-that sudden, overwhelming weight. Struggled to raise her arms-unthinking of how that motion would be received.
Tavore, it’s all right -
A thunderous clang, a reverberation jolting up her right arm, and the sword’s enervating weight was suddenly gone from her hand.
Then something punched into her chest, a stunning blossom of cold fire piercing through flesh, bone-and then she felt a tug from behind, as if something had reached up, clasped her hauberk and yanked on it-but it was just the point, she realized. The point of Tavore’s sword, as it drove against the underside of the armour shielding her back.
Felisin looked down to see that rust-hued blade impaling her.
Her legs gave way and the sword suddenly bowed to her weight.
But she did not slide off that length of stained iron.
Her body held on to it, releasing only in shuddering increments as Felisin fell back, onto the ground.
Through the visor’s slit, she stared up at her sister, a figure standing behind a web of black, twisted iron wire that now rested cool over her eyes, tickling her lashes.
A figure who now stepped closer. To set one boot down hard on her chest-a weight that, now that it had arrived, seemed eternal-and dragged the sword free.
Blood.
Of course. This is how you break an unbreakable chain.
By dying.
I just wanted to know, Tavore, why you did it. And why you did not love me, when I loved you. I–I think that’s what I wanted to know.
The boot lifted from her chest. But she could still feel its weight.
Heavy. So very heavy…
Oh, Mother, look at us now.
Karsa Orlong’s hand snapped out, caught Leoman before the man fell, then dragged him close. ‘Hear me, friend. She is dead. Take your tribes and get out of here.’
Leoman lifted a hand and passed it across his eyes. Then he straightened. ‘Dead, yes. I’m sorry, Toblakai. It wasn’t that. She’-his face twisted-‘ she did not know how to fight. ’
‘True, she did not. And now she’s dead, and the Whirlwind Goddess with her. It is done, friend. We have lost.’
‘More than you know,’ Leoman groaned, pulling away.
In the basin below, the Adjunct was staring down at Sha’ik’s corpse. From both armies lining the ridges, silence. Karsa frowned. ‘The Malazans do not cheer.’
‘No,’ Leoman snarled, turning to where Corabb waited with the horses. ‘They probably hate the bitch. We ride to Y’Ghatan, Toblakai-’
‘Not me,’ Karsa growled.
His friend paused and then nodded without turning around, and vaulted onto his horse. He took the reins from Corabb then glanced over at Toblakai. ‘Fare well, my friend.’
‘And you, Leoman of the Flails.’
‘If L’oric returns from wherever he went, tell him…’ His voice trailed away, then he shrugged. ‘Take care of him if he needs help.’
