Karsa Orlong bared his teeth, and then swung up into the saddle. ‘I am riding north,’ he said.

‘As am I,’ replied Traveller.

Samar Dev collected both horses and tied a long lead to the one she decided she would not ride, then climbed into the saddle of the other-a russet gelding with a broad back and disinterested eyes. ‘I think I want to go home,’ she pronounced. ‘Meaning I need to find a port, presumably on the western coast of this continent.’

Traveller said, ‘I ride to Darujhistan. Ships ply the lake and the river that flows to the coast you seek. I would welcome the company, Samar Dev.’

‘Darujhistan,’ said Karsa Orlong. ‘I have heard of that city. Defied the Malazan Empire and so still free. I will see it for myself.’’Fine then,’ Samar Dev snapped. ‘Let’s ride on, to the next pile of corpses-and with you for company, Karsa Orlong, that shouldn’t be long-and then we’ll ride to the next one and so on, right across this entire continent. To Darujhistan! Wherever in Hood’s name that is.’

‘I will see it,’ Karsa said again. ‘But I will not stay long.’ And he looked at her with suddenly fierce eyes. ‘I am returning home, Witch.’

‘To forge your army,’ she said, nodding, sudden nerves tingling in her gut.

‘And then the world shall witness.’

‘Yes.’

After a moment, the three set out, Karsa Orlong on her left, Traveller on her right, neither speaking, yet they were histories, tomes of past, present and future. Between them, she felt like a crumpled page of parchment, her life a minor scrawl.

High, high above them, a Great Raven fixed preternatural eyes upon the three figures far below, and loosed a piercing cry, then tilted its broad black-sail wings and raced on a current of chill wind, rushing east.

She thought she might be dead. Every step she took was effortless, a product of will and nothing else-no shifting of weight, no swing of legs nor flexing of knees. Will carried her where she sought to go, to that place of formless light where the white sand glowed blindingly bright beneath her, at the proper distance had she been standing. Yet, looking down, she saw nothing of her own body. No limbs, no torso, and nowhere to any side could she see her shadow.

Voices droned somewhere ahead, but she was not yet ready for them, so she remained where she was, surrounded in warmth and light.

Pulses, as from torches flaring through thick mist, slowly approached, disconnected from the droning voices, and she now saw a line of figures drawing towards her. Women, heads tilted down, long hair over their faces, naked, each one heavy with pregnancy. The torch fires hovered over each one, fist-sized suns in which rainbow flames flickered and spun.

Salind wanted to recoil. She was a Child of a Dead Seed, after all. Born from a womb of madness. She had nothing for these women. She was no longer a priestess, no longer able to confer the blessing of anyone, no god and least of all herself, upon any child waiting to tumble into the world.

Yet those seething orbs of flame-she knew they were the souls of the unborn, the not-yet-born, and these mothers were walking towards her, with purpose, with need.

I can give you nothing! Go away!

Still they came on, faces lifting, revealing eyes dark and empty, and seemed not to see her even as, one by one, they walked through Salind. Gods, some of these women were not even human.

And as each one passed through her, she felt the life of the child within. She saw the birth unfolding, saw the small creature with those strangely wise eyes that seemed to belong to every newborn (except, perhaps, her own). And then theyears rushing on, the child growlng, faces taking the shape they would carry into old age-

But not all. As mother after mother stepped through her, futures flashed bright, and some died quickly indeed. Fraught, flickering sparks, ebbing, winking out, darkness rushing in. And at these she cried out, filled with anguish even as she un-derstood that souls travelled countless journeys, of which only one could be known by a mortal-so many, in countless perturbations-and that the loss belonged only to others, never to the child itself, for in its inarticulate, ineffable wisdom, understanding was absolute; the passage of life that seemed tragically short could well be the perfect duration, the experience complete-

Others, however, died in violence, and this was a crime, an outrage against life itself. Here, among these souls, there was fury, shock, denial. There was railing, struggling, bitter defiance. No, some deaths were as they should be, but others were not. From somewhere a woman’s voice began speaking.

‘Bless them, that they not be taken.

‘Bless them, that they begin in their time and that they end in its fullness.

‘Bless them, in the name of the Redeemer, against the cruel harvesters of souls, the takers of life.

‘Bless them, Daughter of Death, that each life shall be as it is written, for peace is born of completion, and completion denied-completion of all potential, all promised in life-is a crime, a sin, a consignation to eternal damnation. Beware the takers, the users! The blight of killers!

‘They are coming! Again and again, they harvest the souls-’

That strange voice was shrieking now, and Salind sought to flee but all will had vanished. She was trapped in this one place, as mother after mother plunged into her, eyes black and wide, mouths gaping in a chorus of screams, wailing terror, heart-crushing fear, for their unborn children-

All at once she heard the droning voices again, summoning her, inviting her into… into what?

Sanctuary.

With a cry tearing loose from her throat, Salind pulled away, raced towards those voices-

And opened her eyes. Low candlelight surrounded her. She was lying on a bed. The voices embraced her from all sides and, blinking, she sought to sit up. So weak-

An arm slipped behind her shoulders, helped her rise as pillows were pushed underneath. She stared up at a familiar, alien face. ‘Spinnock Durav.’ He nodded.

Others were rising into view now. Tiste Andii women, all in dark shapeless robes, eyes averted as they began filing out of the chamber, taking their chanting song with them.

Those voices-so heavy, so solid-they truly belonged to these women? She was astonished, half disbelieving, and yet…

‘You almost died,’ Spinnock Durav said. ‘The healers called you back-the priestesses.’’But why?’

His smile was wry. ‘I called in a favour or two. But I think, once they attended you, there was more to it. An obligation, perhaps. You are, after all, a sister priestess-oh, betrothed to a different ascendant, true enough, but that did not matter. Or,’ and he smiled again, ‘so it turned out.’

Yes, but why? Why did you bring me back? I don’t want-oh, she could not complete that thought. Understanding now, at last; how vast the sin of suicide-of course, it would not have been that, would it? To have simply slipped away, taken by whatever sickness afflicted her. Was it not a kind of wisdom to surrender?

‘No,’ she mumbled, ’it isn’t.’

‘Salind?’

‘To bless,’ she said, ’is to confer a hope. Is that enough? To make sacred the wish for good fortune, a fulfilled life? What can it achieve?’

He was studying her face. ‘High Priestess,’ he now said, haltingly, as if truly attempting an answer, ‘in blessing, you purchase a moment of peace, in the one being blessed, in the one for whom blessing is asked. Perhaps it does not last, but the gift you provide, well, its value never fades.’

She turned her head, looked away. Beyond the candles, she saw a wall crowded with Andiian hieroglyphs and a procession of painted figures, all facing one way, to where stood the image of a woman whose back was turned, denying all those beseeching her. A mother rejecting her children-she could see how the artist had struggled with all those upturned faces, the despair and anguish twisting them-painted in tears, yes.