As Icarium walked up to him, Taxilian, his eyes strangely bright, bowed and stepped back. "This, Icarium," he said, "is your day."
My day? Yes, my first day.
Lifestealer faced the ruin.
A glow was now rising from somewhere inside, shafts slanting up between snapped timbers and beams, lancing out in spears from beneath stone and brick. The glow burgeoned, and the world beneath him seemed to tremble. But no, that was no illusion – buildings groaned, shuddered. Splintering sounds, shutters rattling as from a gust of wind.
Icarium drew a step closer, drawing a dagger.
Thunder sounded beneath him, making the cobbles bounce in puffs of dust. Somewhere, in the city, structures began to break apart, as sections and components within them stirred into life, into inexorable motion. Seeking to return to a most ancient pattern.
More thunder, as buildings burst apart.
Columns of dust corkscrewed skyward.
And still the white glow lifted, spread out in a fashion somewhere between liquid and fire, pouring, leaping, the shafts and spears twisting in the air. Engulfing the ruin, spilling out onto the street, lapping around Icarium, who drew the sharp-edged blade diagonally, deep, up one forearm; then did the same with the others – holding the weapon tight in a blood-soaked hand.
Who then raised his hands.
To measure time, one must begin. To grow futureward, one must root. Deep into the ground with blood.
I built this machine. This place that will forge my beginning. No longer outside the world. No longer outside time itself. Give me this, wounded or not, give me this. If K'rul can, why not me?
All that poured from his wrists flared incandescent. And Icarium walked into the white.
Reaper's Gale, by Steven Erikson (Malazan Book of the Fallen #7)
