Dust of Dreams

truth.
A ghost. A memory. I but wore its guise.
    The dead have found me.
    I have found the dead.
    And we are the same.
    ‘Where will you go now, Toc the Younger?’
    He gathered the reins of his horse and looked back at the distant fire. It was a spark. It would not last the night. ‘Away.’
     
    Snow drifted down, the sky was at peace.
    The figure on the throne had been frozen, lifeless, for a long, long time.
    A fine shedding of dust from the corpse marked that something had changed. Ice then crackled. Steam rose from flesh slowly thickening with life. The hands, gripping the arms of the throne, suddenly twitched, fingers uncurling.
    Light flickered in its pitted eyes.
    And, looking out from mortal flesh once more, Hood, who had once been the Lord of Death, found arrayed before him fourteen Jaghut warriors. They stood in the midst of frozen corpses, weapons out but lowered or resting across shoulders.
    One spoke. ‘What was that war again?’
    The others laughed.
    The first one continued, ‘Who was that enemy?’
    The laughter this time was louder, longer.
    ‘Who was our commander?’
    Heads rocked back and the thirteen roared with mirth.
    The first speaker shouted, ‘Does he live? Do we?’
    Hood slowly rose from the throne, melted ice streaming down his blackened hide. He stood, and eventually the laughter fell away. He took one step forward, and then another.
    The fourteen warriors did not move.
    Hood lowered to one knee, head bowing. ‘I seek . . . penance.’
    A warrior far to the right said, ‘Gathras, he seeks penance. Do you hear that?’
    The first speaker replied. ‘I do, Sanad.’
    ‘Shall we give it, Gathras?’ another asked.
    ‘Varandas, I believe we shall.’
    ‘Gathras.’
    ‘Yes, Haut?’
    ‘What was that war again?’
    The Jaghut howled.
     
    The Errant was lying on wet stone, on his back, unconscious, the socket of one eye a pool of blood.
    Kilmandaros, breathing hard, stepped close to look down upon him. ‘Will he live?’
    Sechul Lath was silent for a moment, and then he sighed. ‘
Live
is such a strange word. We know nothing else, after all. Not truly. Not . . . intimately.’
    ‘But will he?’
    Sechul turned away. ‘I suppose so.’ He halted suddenly, cocked his head and then snorted. ‘Just what he always wanted.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘He’s got an eye on a Gate.’
    Her laughter rumbled in the cavern, and when it faded she turned to Sechul and said, ‘I am ready to free the bitch. Beloved son, is it time to end the world?’
    Face hidden from her view, Sechul Lath closed his eyes. Then said, ‘Why not?’
     
    This ends the Ninth Tale
of The Malazan
Book of the Fallen

Dust of Dreams
COVER
TITLE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
PROLOGUE
BOOK ONE: The Sea Does Not Dream of You

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
BOOK TWO: Eaters of Diamonds and Gems

Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
BOOK THREE: Only the Dust Will Dance

Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
BOOK FOUR: The Path Forever Walked

Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four