Toll the Hounds

‘If not for your desire I could feel in my nest,’ said the woman now lying be-neath 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 boylike 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 noth-ing veiled in her eyes. ‘We do what we can.’

‘Yes.’

‘No, you don’t understand. The Temple-my priestesses. We try as Anoman-der 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 bur-dens, 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-it future-will be found in what happens now, in these first moments. And that is a cause for con-cern, 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. ‘1 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 feel-ing 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 con-tinued 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.

The righteous will claim sole domain on judgement. The righteous are the first to make hands into fists, the first to shout down dissenters, the first to bully others into compliance. ‘

I live in a village of the meek, and I am the meekest of them all. There is no glory in being helpless. Nor is there hope.

Rain lashing down, a drumming roar on the slatted, angled roof, the sound of a deluge that filled her skull. That the Redeemer will embrace is neither just nor unjust. No mortal can sanction their behaviour in the Redeemer’s name. How dare they so presume? Miserable faces matching past, peering in through the cracks in her door. And she wanted to rail at them all. You damned fools. Absolution is not enough! But they would then look upon her, moon-eyed and doleful, desperate that every question yield an answer, clinging to the notion that one suffered for a reason and knowledge of that reason would ease the suffering.

Knowledge, Salind told herself, eases nothing. It just fills spaces that might otherwise flood with despair.

Can you live without answers? All of you, ask that of yourself. Can you live without answers? Because if you cannot, then most assuredly you will invent your own answers and they will comfort you. And all those who do not share your view will by their very existence strike fear and hatred into your heart. What god blesses this?

‘I am no High Priestess,’ she croaked, as water trickled down her face.

Heavy boots splashing in the mud outside. The door was tugged back and a dark shape blotted out the pale