Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen 9)

The monolith, Kalyth suddenly comprehended, was carved in the likeness of a finger. And the stone that she had first seen as green and black was growing translucent, serpentine green, revealing inner flaws and facets. She saw seams like veins of deep emerald, and masses that might be bone, the colour of true jade, deep within the edifice.

The old man-whose skin was not blue and black as she had first believed, but so thickly tattooed in swirling fur that nothing of its natural tone remained-now spoke, though he did not cease thrusting his hands into the sand at the base of the monolith. ‘There is a tribe in the Sanimon,’ he said, ‘that claims it was the first to master the forging of iron. They still make tools and weapons in the traditional manner-quenching blades in sand, just as I’m doing right now, do you see?’

Though she did not know his language, she understood him, and at his question she squinted once more at his arms-if his hands gripped weapons, then he had pushed them deep into the sands indeed.

Yet she saw no forge-not even a firepit-anywhere in sight.

‘I do not think,’ the man continued, gasping every now and then, as if in pain, ‘I do not think, however, that I have it exactly right. There must be some other secrets involved. Quenching in water or manure piles-I have no experience in such things.’ He paused. ‘At least, I don’t think I do. So much… forgotten.’

‘You are not Elan,’ Kalyth said.

He smiled at her words, although instead of looking at her he fixed his gaze on the monolith. ‘But here is a thing,’ he said. ‘I can name, oh, a hundred different tribes. Seven Cities tribes, Quon Talian tribes, Korel tribes, Genabackan-and they all share one thing and one thing only and do you know what that is?’

He waited, as if he had addressed the monolith rather than Kalyth, who stood beside him, close enough to reach out and touch. ‘I will tell you,’ he then said. ‘Every one of them is or is about to be extinct. Melted away, in the fashion of all peoples, eventually. Sometimes some semblance of their blood lives on, finds new homes, watered down, forgetful. Or they’re nothing but dust, even their names gone, for ever gone. No one to mourn the loss… and all that.’

‘I am the last Elan,’ she told him.

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The monolith, Kalyth suddenly comprehended, was carved in the likeness of a finger. And the stone that she had first seen as green and black was growing translucent, serpentine green, revealing inner flaws and facets. She saw seams like veins of deep emerald, and masses that might be bone, the colour of true jade, deep within the edifice.

The old man-whose skin was not blue and black as she had first believed, but so thickly tattooed in swirling fur that nothing of its natural tone remained-now spoke, though he did not cease thrusting his hands into the sand at the base of the monolith. ‘There is a tribe in the Sanimon,’ he said, ‘that claims it was the first to master the forging of iron. They still make tools and weapons in the traditional manner-quenching blades in sand, just as I’m doing right now, do you see?’

Though she did not know his language, she understood him, and at his question she squinted once more at his arms-if his hands gripped weapons, then he had pushed them deep into the sands indeed.

Yet she saw no forge-not even a firepit-anywhere in sight.

‘I do not think,’ the man continued, gasping every now and then, as if in pain, ‘I do not think, however, that I have it exactly right. There must be some other secrets involved. Quenching in water or manure piles-I have no experience in such things.’ He paused. ‘At least, I don’t think I do. So much… forgotten.’

‘You are not Elan,’ Kalyth said.

He smiled at her words, although instead of looking at her he fixed his gaze on the monolith. ‘But here is a thing,’ he said. ‘I can name, oh, a hundred different tribes. Seven Cities tribes, Quon Talian tribes, Korel tribes, Genabackan-and they all share one thing and one thing only and do you know what that is?’

He waited, as if he had addressed the monolith rather than Kalyth, who stood beside him, close enough to reach out and touch. ‘I will tell you,’ he then said. ‘Every one of them is or is about to be extinct. Melted away, in the fashion of all peoples, eventually. Sometimes some semblance of their blood lives on, finds new homes, watered down, forgetful. Or they’re nothing but dust, even their names gone, for ever gone. No one to mourn the loss… and all that.’

‘I am the last Elan,’ she told him.

He resumed pushing his hands deep into the sand, as deep as he could manage. ‘I am readying myself… to wield a most formidable weapon. They thought to hide it from me. They failed. Weapons must be tempered and tempered well, of course. They even thought to kill it. As if such a thing is remotely possible’-he paused-‘then again, perhaps it is. The key to everything, you see, is to cut clean, down the middle. A clean cut-that’s what I dream of.’

‘I dream of… this,’ she said. ‘I have ridden the Spotted Horse. I have found you in the realms beyond-why? Have you summoned me? What am I to you? What are you to me?’

He laughed. ‘Now that amuses me! I see where you’re pointing-you think I don’t? You think I am blind to this, too?’

‘I ride the-’

‘Oh, enough of that! You took something. That’s how you get here, that’s how everyone gets here. Or they dance and dance until they fall into and out from their bodies. Whatever you took just eased you back into the rhythm that exists in all things-the pulse of the universe, if you like. With enough discipline you don’t need to take anything at all-which is a good thing, since after ten or twenty years of eating herbs or whatever, most shamans are inured to their effects anyway. So the ingesting serves only as ritual, as permission to journey.’ He suddenly halted all motions. ‘Spotted Horse… yes, visual hallucinations, patterns floating in front of the eyes. The Bivik called it Wound Drumming-like blossoming bloodstains, I suppose they meant. Thump thump thump… And the Fenn-’

‘The Matron looks to our kind,’ she cut in. ‘The old ways have failed.’

‘The old ways ever fail,’ the old man said. ‘So too the new ways, more often than not.’

‘She is desperate-’

‘Desperation delivers poison counsel.’

‘ Have you nothing worthwhile to tell me? ’

‘The secret lies in the tempering,’ he said. ‘That is a worthwhile thing to tell you. Your weapon must be well tempered. Soundly forged, ingeniously annealed, the edges honed with surety. The finger points straight towards them, you see-well, if this were a proper sky, you’d see.’ His broad face split in a smile that was more a grimace than a signature of pleasure-and she thought that, despite his words suggesting otherwise, he might be blind.