Memories of Ice (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #3)

by Steven Erikson

‘What’s happened to the Adjunct? Where are we?’ ‘Lost.’ ‘Which question is that an answer to, Tool?’ ‘Both.’

More than one philosopher has claimed that we ever remain children, far beneath the indurated layers that make up the armour of adulthood.

Unfamiliar faces, gauging regard, every sense heightened in an effort to read the unknown. The natural efforts of society. Do we all possess a wish to remain unseen, unnoticed? Is the witnessing of our actions by others our greatest restraint?

For them, she knew, the sea of her mind, whipped now to a frenzied storm of panic and despair, meant nothing. They were hunters, and what resided within the soul of their quarry had no relevance. As with the antelope, the bhederin calf, the ranag, grace and wonder, promise and potential – reduced one and all to meat.

To carry a child is to age in one’s bones. To weary one’s blood. To stretch skin and flesh. Birthing splits a woman in two, the division a thing of raw agony. Splitting young from old. And the child needs, and the mother gives.