Toll the Hounds

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 de-feated, 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, Spinnok 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. ‘Un-able 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 abso-lution is not the same as redemption, is it? The former is passive. The latter de-mands 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 Spin-nock 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 won-der, what would be needed to redress that imbalance?’

Spinnock Durav found his mouth dry, and if he’d built proud castles of compre-hension, 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 delicately unveil leads me into this willingness, to storm without hesita-tion 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 Dark-ness, 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 un-known 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 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 ex-periences 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 sur-passed. 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 late in his years-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 de-scend 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 end-ing her husband’s life. Was this a thing to look forward to? Do we not possess enough burdens as it is?