‘Because there is no going back. It’s here – the power behind those ghostly hands of yours – not the otataral, which is fading, ever fading—’

‘Fading?’

‘Yes, fading! Have not your dreams and visions worsened? Have you not realized why? Yes, my mother has told me – on the Otataral Isle, in the desert – that statue. Heboric, an entire island of otataral was created to contain that statue, to hold it prisoner. But you have given it a means to escape – there, through your hands. You must return!’

‘Enough!’ he snarled, flinging her hand away. ‘Tell me, did she also tell you of herself on that journey?’

‘That which she was before no longer matters—’

‘Oh, but it does, lass! It does matter!’

‘What do you mean?’

The temptation came close to overwhelming him. Because she is Malazan! Because she is Tavore’s sister! Because this war is no longer the Whirlwind’s – it has been stolen away, twisted by something far more powerful, by the ties of blood that bind us all in the harshest, tightest chains! What chance a raging goddess against that?

Instead, he said nothing.

‘You must undertake the journey,’ Felisin said in a low voice. ‘But I know, it cannot be done alone. No. I will go with you—’

He staggered away at her words, shaking his head. It was a horrible idea, a terrifying idea. Yet brutally perfect, a nightmare of synchronicity.

‘Listen! It need not be just you and I – I will find someone else. A warrior, a loyal protector—’

‘Enough! No more of this!’ Yet it will take her away – away from Bidithal and his ghastly desires. It will take her away . . . from the storm that is coming. ‘With whom else have you spoken of this?’ he demanded.

‘No-one, but I thought... Leoman. He could choose for us someone from Mathok’s people—’

‘Not a word, lass. Not now. Not yet.’

Her hand gripped his forearm once more. ‘We cannot wait too long, Ghost Hands.’

‘Not yet, Felisin. Now, take me home, please.’

‘Will you come with me, Toblakai?’

Karsa dragged his gaze from Urugal’s stone face. The sun had set with its characteristic suddenness, and the stars overhead were bright. The snakes had begun dispersing, driven into the eerily silent forest in search of food. ‘Would you I run beside you and your puny horses, Leoman? There are no Teblor mounts in this land. Nothing to match my size—’

‘Teblor mounts? Actually, friend, you are wrong in that. Well, not here, true, as you say. But to the west, in the Jhag Odhan, there are wild horses that are a match to your stature. Wild now, in any case. They are Jhag horses – bred long ago by the Jaghut. It may well be that your Teblor mounts are of the same breed – there were Jaghut on Genabackis, after all.’

‘Why have you not told me this before?’