And what is it, Lord, that you think I seek? I would not ask what you think I fear for you know the answer to that one. ‘I thought the walk might do me some good.’
‘And so it shall.’
Now, the next day, he sat in his chamber. A small leather pack of supplies rested beside the door. And the thought of a walk, a long one, up rugged mountainsides beneath hard sunlight, no longer seemed so appetizing. Age did such things, feeding the desire then starving the will. And what, after all, would seeing the river achieve?
A reminder of illusions, perhaps, a reminder that, in a realm for ever beyond reach, there stood the ruin of a once-great city, and, flowing round it, Dorssan Ryl, living on, ceaseless in its perfect absence, in playing its game of existence. A river of purest darkness, the life water of the Tiste Andii, and if the children were gone, well, what difference did that make?
Children will leave. Children will abandon the old ways, and the old fools with all their pointless advice can mutter and grumble to empty spaces and nod at the answering echoes. Stone and brickwork make ideal audiences.
No, he would make this journey. He would defy the follies of old age, unmeasured and unmocked under the eyes of the young. A solitary pilgrimage.
And all these thoughts, seeming so indulgent and wayward, will perhaps reveal their worth then, driving dire echoes forward to that future moment of revelation. Hah. Did he believe such things? Did he possess the necessary faith?
‘Ask no question, the river shall answer.’
‘Question the river, find the answer.’
The Mad Poets spent lifetimes waging profound wars in their rendered prose. Achieving what? Why, the implosive obliteration of their tradition.
Summarize that in two clauses.
‘I need you to make a journey.’
Spinnock Durav managed a smile. ‘When, Lord?’
Anomander Rake stretched out his legs until his boots were very nearly in the flames of the hearth. ‘Soon, I think. Tell me, how goes the game?’
He squinted at the fire. ‘Not well. Oh, I win each time. It’s just that my finest opponent does poorly of late. His mind is on other matters, unfortunately. I am not pressed, and this removes much of the pleasure.’
‘This would be Seerdomin.’
Spinnock glanced up, momentarily surprised. But of course, he told himself, he is the Son of Darkness, after all. They may well call him the Ghost King, but I doubt there is a single detail he does not know in Black Coral. They will not heed that until they make a terrible mistake and then it will be too late. ‘Seerdomin, yes. The Benighted.’
A faint smile from Anomander Rake. ‘Itkovian was a most extraordinary man. This newborn cult interests me, and I am not so sure it would have pleased him. He saw himself as a soldier, a failed one at that – the fall of Capustan devastated him.’ He paused for a moment, clearly remembering, then he said, ‘They were but a mercenary company, modest in complement – nothing like the Crimson Guard. I dare say even the Crimson Guard would have failed to hold Capustan.’
Spinnock Durav remained silent, attentive. He had been away during that time. Another journey on behalf of his Lord. Hunting a dragon, of all things. Conversations like the one he’d found at the end of that quest were not worth repeating.
‘He could forgive everyone but himself.’
No wonder you liked him.
Anomander Rake sighed. ‘I cannot say how long you will need, Spinnock. As long, perhaps, as you can manage.’
As the significance of that statement settled into Spinnock Durav he felt an uncharacteristic flash of dismay.
Angry at himself, he slowly settled his hands on the arms of the chair, fingers curling round the smooth wood, hoping he’d left nothing in his expression. This is what I do and will do. Until my end. She is young, so young – oh, there’s no point in thinking about . . . about any of that. About her at all. Was he able to keep the anguish from his eyes? What thoughts – doubts – rustled through his Lord now as he watched his old friend? Feeling defeated, Spinnock Durav glanced over at Anomander Rake.
The ruler of Black Coral sat frowning at his smouldering boots.
So, how long has he been thus? ‘I have always . . . managed, Lord.’
‘Yes, you have. I am curious. What so afflicts Seerdomin?’
‘A crisis of faith, I think.’ Life like Kef Tanar, this skipping across paths. He does it so well, this man whom I have never defeated in our tabletop wars, not in ten thousand years. But I can stay with you, Lord, at least this far. ‘He has ceased making his daily pilgrimage. Among those living out there, there have grown . . . expectations. Which, it seems, he is unable to meet.’
‘You tread carefully, Spinnock Durav. That is unlike you.’
‘I do not possess all the details yet.’
‘But you shall.’
‘Eventually, yes.’
‘And then?’
Spinnock looked across at Rake. ‘I will do what needs doing.’
‘Best hurry, then.’
Ah, yes, I see now.
‘The Redeemer is a most helpless god,’ Anomander Rake said after a time. ‘Unable to refuse, unable to give. A sea sponge swallowing the entire sea. Then the next one and the one after that. Can it simply go on for ever? But for Itkovian, I would think not.’
‘Is that a sort of faith, Lord?’
‘Perhaps it is. Is his ability to forgive truly endless? To take on the pain and guilt of others for all eternity? I admit, I have some serious difficulties with this cult’s root tenets – oh, as I said, I greatly admired Itkovian, the Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords. I even understand, to some extent, his gesture with the Kron T’lan Imass. As the Redeemer, however . . . I cannot but wonder at a god so willing to assume the crimes and moral flaws of its followers, while in turn demanding nothing – no expectation of a change in behaviour, no threat of punishment should they continue to transgress. Absolution – yes, I grasp the notion, but absolution is not the same as redemption, is it? The former is passive. The latter demands an effort, one with implicit sacrifice and hardship, one demanding all the higher qualities of what we call virtues.’
‘Yet he is called the Redeemer.’
‘Because he takes on the task of redemption for all who come to him, all who pray to him. And yes, it is an act of profound courage. But he does not expect the same of his people – he appears to possess no expectations whatsoever.’
This was most loquacious of his Lord, evidence of a long, careful condensation of thought, of considerable energy devoted to the nature of the cult clinging to the very edge of Black Coral and Night, all of which seemed . . . unusual. ‘He leads by example, then.’
A sudden glitter of interest in Anomander Rake’s eyes and he studied Spinnock Durav intently. ‘Has any one follower stumbled on to that possibility, Spinnock Durav?’
‘I do not know. I, er, don’t think so – but, Lord, I am too far outside all of it at the moment.’
‘If the Redeemer cannot deny, then he is trapped in a state of imbalance. I wonder, what would be needed to redress that imbalance?’
Spinnock Durav found his mouth dry, and if he’d built proud castles of comprehension, if he’d raised sound fortifications to guard his assumptions, and arrayed vast armies to argue his case and to shift and align and manoeuvre to defend his cherished notions – if he had done all this to then sit in comfort, secure in his place in this conversation – if this was indeed a game of Kef Tanar, then in one simple question posed, his foe had crashed his empire to ruin.
What would be needed to redress that imbalance?
A man who refuses.
You tell me time is short, my Lord. You lead me to elucidate what bothers me – for you can see that something does – and then, amidst the lofty clouds of religious discussion, you lash a lightning bolt down, striking my very heart.
If I am to do something, I must do it soon.
My Lord, my awe of you is unbounded. My love for you and the compassion you so delicate
ly unveil leads me into this willingness, to storm without hesitation what you would have me storm, to stand for as long as needed, for it is what you need.
‘It is well I am immune to heat,’ Anomander Rake said, ‘for I have scorched my boots most severely.’
And so the fire grows round you, yet you do not flinch.
I will not fail you, my Lord.
‘Endest Silann is upon the mountain road now,’ Anomander Rake said, rising. ‘And Crone has returned but soon must wing away again. I shall ask her to send a few grandchildren to guard him on his journey. Unless, of course, you think it might offend Endest Silann should he see them wheeling overhead?’
‘It might, Lord, but that should not change your decision.’
A faint smile. ‘Agreed. Send my regards to the priestess, Spinnock.’
Until that moment, he had not known he was going to visit the High Priestess – who had scoured away her very name in service to her role in the Temple of Darkness, to make of her ever-open legs an impersonal act, that made her body a vessel and nothing more – but he now knew that he needed to do just that. Kurald Galain was a most troubled warren right now. Storms rumbled within it, drumming every thread of power. Energies crackled. Making her insatiable. So, she will want me – but that is not what concerns Anomander Rake. There is something else. I must go to her, and I don’t even know why.
But he does.
Spinnock Durav found himself sitting alone in the small chamber. The fire was down to coals. The air smelled of burned leather.
The High Priestess of the Temple of Dark had cut her hair even shorter, making her disturbingly boyish as she pushed him on to his back, straddling him with her usual eagerness. Normally, he would now begin to slow her down, providing a force of resistance defying her impatience, and so drawing out her pleasure. This time, however, he let her have her way. This was all incidental. Since that unknown force had trembled through Kurald Galain, all the priestesses had been frantic in their desire, forcing male Tiste Andii into the temple and the rooms with the plush beds. If the rumours were true, then even the occasional human was dragged in for the same needful interrogation.
But no answers could be found in the indulgences of the flesh, and perhaps all this was a kind of metaphorical revelation of that raw truth, one that extended far beyond the temple and the prescriptions of priestesses. Yet, did he not want answers from Salind? From that young human woman who could not be more than twenty years of age? From another High Priestess?
He had seen too much, had lived too long. All she faced ahead and all the experiences still awaiting her – they belonged to her age, and should indeed be shared – if at all – by one of similar years. He had no desire to be a mentor, for the student soon grows past the need of one (if the mentor has done his job well), and then it is the mentor who rails against the notion of equality, or of being surpassed. But the impossibility of the notion went further. She would never surpass him. Instead, she would grow old all too quickly, and the sensibilities of her life, a life so truncated, could never match his.
Korlat had not hesitated with the Malazan sergeant Whiskeyjack – Spinnock had heard the tragic tale, bound up as it was in the conquest of Black Coral and the fall of the Pannion Domin. And the prolonged absence of both Korlat and her brother, Orfantal. Nevertheless, Whiskeyjack had been a man in his late forties – he had lived most of a life. And who could say if the union could have lasted? When, in a terribly short span of years, Korlat would have seen her beloved descend into decay, his back bent, hands atremble, memory failing.
Spinnock could almost imagine the end of that, as, broken-hearted, Korlat would face a moment with a knife in her hands, contemplating the mercy of ending her husband’s life. Was this a thing to look forward to? Do we not possess enough burdens as it is?
‘If not for your desire I could feel in my nest,’ said the woman now lying beneath him, ‘I would think you disinterested, Spinnock Durav. You have not been with me here, it seems, and while it’s said a man’s sword never lies, now I truly wonder if that is so.’
Blinking, he looked down into her face. A most attractive face, one that both suited the nature of her devotion and yet seemed far too innocent – too open – for this life of uninhibited indulgence. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I waited for you to . . . leave.’
She pushed out from under him, sat up and ran her long-fingered hands through the brush of her hair. ‘We fail in that of late,’ she said.
Ah, so that is the reason for your desperation, your avidness.
‘It will return,’ she said. ‘It must. Something . . . changes, Spin.’
He stared at her unblemished back, the graceful curve of her spine, the slight rounding on her hips that he knew to be soft and cool to the touch. The angle of her shoulders bespoke either temporary satiation or a more prolonged weariness. ‘Our Lord sends his regards.’
She turned to look down at him, brows lifted in surprise. ‘He does? That would be a first.’
Spinnock frowned. Yes, it would. I hadn’t thought of that. ‘I will be leaving soon.’
Her eyes hardened. ‘Why does he treat you so? As if he possessed you, to do with as he pleases.’
‘I stand in his stead.’
‘But you are not the Son of Darkness.’
‘No, that is true.’
‘One day you are going to die in his stead.’
‘I am.’
‘And then he will need to find another fool.’
‘Yes.’
She glared down at him, then turned and swiftly rose. Black skin polished in the glow of the lanterns – nothing boy-like now, a figure all curves and softened planes. Spinnock smiled. ‘I will miss you as well.’
Faint surrender as she sighed. And when she faced him again, there was nothing veiled in her eyes. ‘We do what we can.’
‘Yes.’
‘No, you don’t understand. The Temple – my priestesses. We try as Anomander Rake tries, both of us, seeking to hold on to some meaning, some purpose. He imagines it can be found in the struggles of lesser folk – of humans and all their miserable squabbles. He is wrong. We know this and so too does he. The Temple, Spin, chooses another way. The rebirth of our Gate, the return of Mother Dark, into our lives, our souls.’
‘Yes. And?’
Something crumpled in her expression. ‘We fail as he does. We know and he knows. The Son of Darkness does not send me his regards.’
Then . . . he said ‘priestess’. But he didn’t mean this one. Spinnock sat up, reached down to the floor where his clothes were lying. ‘High Priestess,’ he said, ‘what can you tell me of the Cult of the Redeemer?’
‘What?’
He looked up, wondered at the alarm in her eyes. After a moment he shook his head. ‘No, I am not interested in forgiveness. Embracing the T’lan Imass killed the man – what would embracing us do to his soul?’
‘I care not to think, Spin. Oh, he was glorious in his way – for all the blood that was needlessly spilled because of it – still . . . glorious. If you speak not of our burdens, then I do not understand your question.’
‘It is newborn, this cult. What shape will it take?’
She sighed again – most extraordinary and further proof of her exhaustion. ‘As you say, very young indeed. And like all religions, its shape – its future – will be found in what happens now, in these first moments. And that is a cause for concern, for although pilgrims gather and give gifts and pray, no organization exists. Nothing has been formulated – no doctrine – and all religions need such things.’
He rubbed at his jaw, considering, and then nodded.
‘Why does this interest you?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure, but I appreciate your expertise.’ He paused, stared down at the clothes in his hands. He had forgotten something, something important – what might it be? ‘I was not wrong,’ she observed, still watching him. ‘You are not yourself, Spin. Have you finally come to resent your Lord’s demands?’
> ‘No.’ Perhaps, but that is not worthy of consideration – the flaw would be mine, after all. ‘I am fine, High Priestess.’
She snorted. ‘None of us are that, Spin,’ she said as she turned away.
As his gaze dropped he saw his sword and belt lying on the floor. Of course – he had forgotten his ritual. He collected the weapon and, as the High Priestess threw on her robes, carried it over to the table and set it down. From the belt’s stiff leather pouch he removed a small sponge, a metal flask of eel oil, and a much-stained pad of sharkskin.
‘Ah,’ said the High Priestess from the doorway, ‘all is right with the world again. Later, Spin.’
‘Yes, High Priestess,’ he replied, electing to ignore her sarcasm. And the need it so poorly disguised.
Rain had rushed in from the sea, turning the paths into rivers of mud. Salind sat in the makeshift shed, legs curled up beneath her, shivering as water dripped down through holes in the roof. More people had come scratching at her door, but she had turned them all away.
She’d had enough of being a High Priestess. All her heightened sensitivities to the whims of the Redeemer were proving little more than a curse. What matter all these vague emotions she sensed from the god? She could do nothing for him.
This should not have surprised her, and she told herself that what she was feeling wasn’t hurt, but something else, something more impersonal. Perhaps it was her grieving for the growing list of victims as Gradithan and his sadistic mob continued to terrorize the camp – so much so that some were planning to leave as soon as the road dried out. Or her failure with the Benighted. The expectations settling upon her, in the eyes of so many people, were too vast, too crushing. She could not hope to answer them all. And she was finding that, in truth, she could answer none of them.
Words were empty in the face of brutal will. They were helpless to defend whatever sanctity might be claimed, for a person’s self, for their freedom to choose how they would live, and with whom. Empathy haunted her. Compassion opened wounds which only a hardening of the soul could in the future prevent, and this she did not want – she had seen too many faces, looked into too many eyes, and recoiled from their coldness, their delight in vicious judgement.
Toll the Hounds Page 36
