Toll the Hounds Page 25

  They set out towards him.

  Clip’s eyes were open, staring – Nimander wondered if he was dead, until he saw the slow rise and fall of his chest – but showing no awareness of anything, even as they closed round him, even as Nimander knelt in front of him.

  Skintick moved up to the tavern doors, pushed them open and stepped inside. He staggered out a moment later, both hands covering his face as he stumbled out into the middle of the street and stood there, back to the others.

  Slaughter. He slaughtered them all. Clip’s sword was lying nearby, thick with gore, as if the entire weapon had been dragged through some enormous beast.

  ‘They took something from him,’ Aranatha said. ‘Gone. Gone away.’

  Nenanda broke into a jog, straight for the temple opposite.

  ‘Gone for good?’ Nimander asked Aranatha.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How long can he live this way?’

  She shook her head. ‘Force food and water into him, keep his wounds clean . . .’

  Long moments when no one spoke, when it seemed not a single question could be found, could be cleaned off and uttered in the name of normality.

  Nenanda returned. ‘They’ve fled, the priests, all fled. Where was the Dying God supposed to be?’

  ‘A place named Bastion,’ said Kedeviss. ‘West of here, I think.’

  ‘We need to go there,’ Nimander said, straightening to face the others.

  Nenanda bared his teeth. ‘To avenge him.’

  ‘To get him back,’ Nimander retorted. ‘To get back to him whatever they took.’

  Aranatha sighed. ‘Nimander . . .’

  ‘No, we go to Bastion. Nenanda, see if there’re any horses, or better yet, an ox and wagon – there was a large stable behind the inn.’ He looked down at Clip. ‘I don’t think we have the time to walk.’

  As the three women set out to collect the party’s gear, followed for the moment by Nenanda, Nimander turned to study the tavern’s entrance. He hesitated – even from here he could see something: dark sprawled shapes, toppled chairs; and now the buzz of flies spun out from the gloom within.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Skintick behind him. ‘Nimander. Don’t.’

  ‘I have seen dead people before.’

  ‘Not like these.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They are all smiling.’

  Nimander faced his closest friend, studied his ravaged face, and then nodded. After a moment he asked, ‘What made the priests flee?’

  ‘Aranatha, I think,’ answered Skintick.

  Nimander nodded, believing the same. They had taken Clip – even with all the dead villagers, the priests had taken Clip, perhaps his very soul, as a gift to the Dying God. But they could do nothing against the rest of them – not while Aranatha resisted. Fearing retribution, they fled in the night – away, probably to Bastion, to the protection of their god.

  ‘Nimander,’ said Skintick in a low, hollow voice, ‘we are forced.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Awakened once more.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I had hoped . . . never again.’

  I know, Skintick. You would rather smile and jest, as befits your blessed nature. Instead, the face you will turn towards what is to come . . . it will be no different from ours, and have we not all looked upon one another in those times? Have we not seen the mirrors we became to each other? Have we not recoiled?

  Awakened.

  What lay in the tavern was only the beginning. Merely Clip and his momentary, failing frenzy.

  From this point on, what comes belongs to us.

  To that, even Phaed was silent. While somewhere in the mists of his mind, so faint as to be almost lost, a woman wept.

  It was a quirk of blind optimism that held that someone broken could, in time, heal, could reassemble all the pieces and emerge whole, perhaps even stronger for the ordeal. Certainly wiser, for what else could be the reward for suffering? The notion that did not sit well, with anyone, was that one so broken might remain that way – neither dying (and so removing the egregious example of failure from all mortal eyes) nor improving. A ruined soul should not be stubborn, should not cling to what was clearly a miserable existence.

  Friends recoil. Acquaintances drift away. And the one who fell finds a solitary world, a place where no refuge could be found from loneliness when loneliness was the true reward of surviving for ever maimed, for ever weakened. Yet who would not choose that fate, when the alternative was pity?

  Of course, pity was a virtually extinct sentiment among the Tiste Andii, and this Endest Silann saw as a rare blessing among his kind. He could not have suffered such regard for very long. As for the torment of his memories, well, it was truly extraordinary how long one could weather that assault. Yet he knew he was not unique in this matter – it was the burden of his entire people, after all. Sufficient to mitigate his loneliness? Perhaps.

  Darkness had been silent for so long now, his dreams of hearing the whisper of his realm – of his birthplace – were less than ashes. It was no wonder, then, was it, that he now sat in the gloom of his chamber, sheathed in sweat, each trickle seeming to drink all warmth from his flesh. Yes, they had manifested Kurald Galain here in this city, an act of collective will. Yet it was a faceless power – Mother Dark had left them, and no amount of desire on their part could change that.

  So, then, what is this?

  Who speaks with such power?

  Not a whisper but a shout, a cry that bristled with . . . what? With affront. Indignation. Outrage. Who is this?

  He knew that he was not alone in sensing this assault – others must be feeling it, throughout Black Coral. Every Tiste Andii probably sat or stood motionless at this moment, heart pounding, eyes wide with fear and wonder. And, perhaps, hope.

  Could it be?

  He thought to visit the temple, to hear from the High Priestess herself . . . something, a pronouncement, a recognition proclaimed. Instead, he found himself staggering out of his room, hurrying up the corridor, and then ascending the stairs, round and round as if caught in a swirling fever. Out into his Lord’s south-facing demesne – stumbling in to find Anomander Rake seated in his high-backed chair, facing the elongated window and, far below, crashing seas painted black and silver as deep, unknown currents thrashed.

  ‘My Lord,’ Endest gasped.

  ‘Did I have a choice?’ Anomander Rake asked, gaze still on the distant tumult.

  ‘My Lord?’

  ‘Kharkanas. Did you agree with her . . . assessment? Endest Silann? Did I not see true what was to come? Before Light’s arrival, we were in a civil war. Vulnerable to the forces soon to be born. Without the blood of Tiamatha, I could never have enforced . . . peace. Unification.’

  ‘Sire,’ said Endest Silann, then found he could not go on.

  Rake seemed to understand, for he sighed and said, ‘Yes, a most dubious peace. For so many, the peace of death. As for unification, well, that proved woefully shortlived, did it not? Still, I wonder, if I had succeeded – truly succeeded – would that have changed her mind?’

  ‘My Lord – something is happening.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What must we do?’

  ‘Ah, my friend, you are right to ask that. Never mind the High Priestess and her answer – always the same one with her, yes? Who cries the war cry of Kurald Galain? Let us seek the answer between her legs. Even that can grow tiresome, eventually. Although do not repeat my words to Spinnock Durav – I would not disaffect his occasional pleasure.’

  Endest Silann wanted to shriek, wanted to lunge against his Lord, grasp him by the neck, and force out – force out what? He did not know. The Son of Darkness was, to his mind, the smartest creature – mortal, immortal, it mattered not – that he had ever met. His thoughts travelled a thousand tracks simultaneously, and no conversation with him could be predicted, no path deemed certain.

  ‘I cannot give answer this time,’ Anomander Rake then said. ‘Nor, I am afra
id, can Spinnock. He will be needed . . . elsewhere.’ And now his head turned, and his eyes fixed upon Endest Silann. ‘It must fall to you, again. Once more.’

  Endest felt his soul recoil in horror, shrink back into whatever cave it had clawed out for itself somewhere down in the mined-out pit of his heart. ‘Sire, I cannot.’

  Anomander seemed to consider that for a time, ten thousand tracks danced across, on to something new that triggered faint surprise on his features. And he smiled. ‘I understand. I will not ask again, then.’

  ‘Then . . . then what – who? Sire – I do not—’

  The wryness of Anomander Rake’s tone jarred terribly with his words, ‘Reborn into fury, oh, would that I could see that.’ Then his voice grew sober. ‘You were right – you cannot stand in my stead. Do not intercede in any way, Endest Silann. Do not set yourself between two forces, neither of which you can withstand. You may well feel the need, but defy it with all your will. You must not be lost.’

  ‘Sire, I do not understand.’

  But Anomander Rake raised one hand.

  And yes, the emanation was gone. Darkness was silent once more. Whatever had come into their world had vanished.

  Endest found he was trembling. ‘Will – will it return, my Lord?’

  The Son of Darkness studied him with strangely veiled eyes, then rose and walked over to the window. ‘Look, the seas grow calm once more. A most worthy lesson, I think. Nothing lasts for ever. Not violence, not peace. Not sorrow, old friend, nor rage. Look well upon this black sea, Endest Silann, in the nights ahead. To calm your fears. To offer you guidance.’

  And, just like that, he knew he was dismissed.

  Bemused, frightened of a future he knew he was not intelligent enough to yet comprehend, he bowed, then departed. Corridors and stairs, and not so much as an echo remained. He recalled an old prayer, the one whispered before battle.

  Let Darkness receive my every breath

  With her own.

  Let our lives speak in answer unto death

  Never alone.

  But now, at this moment, he had never felt more alone. The warriors no longer voiced that prayer, he well knew. Darkness did not wait to receive a breath, nor the last breath that bridged life and death. A Tiste Andii warrior fought in silence, and when he or she fell, they fell alone. More profoundly alone than anyone who was not Tiste Andii could comprehend.

  A new vision entered his head then, jarring him, halting him halfway down the stairs. The High Priestess, back arching, crying out in ecstasy – or desperation, was there truly a difference?

  Her search. Her answer that was no answer at all.

  Yes, she speaks for us, does she not?

  ‘He is troubled,’ Salind murmured, only now shaking off the violent cold that had gripped her. ‘The Redeemer stirred awake then, for some reason unknown and, to us, unknowable. But I felt him. He is most troubled . . .’

  The half-dozen pilgrims gathered round the fire all nodded, although none possessed her percipience in these matters, too bound up still in the confused obstinacy of mortality’s incessant demands, and, of course, there was the dread, now, the one that had stalked them every moment since the Benighted’s abandonment, an abandonment they saw as a turning away, which was deemed just, because none there had proved worthy of Seerdomin and the protection he offered. Yes, he was right in denying them. They had all failed him. In some way as yet undetermined.

  Salind understood all these notions, and even, to some extent – this alone surprising given her few years – comprehended the nature of self-abnegation that could give rise to them. People in great need were quick to find blame in themselves, quick to assume the burden of guilt for things they in truth had no control over and could not hope to change. It was, she had begun to understand, integral to the very nature of belief, of faith. A need that could not be answered by the self was then given over to someone or something greater than oneself, and this form of surrender was a lifting of a vast, terrible weight.

  In faith could be found release. Relief.

  And so this enormous contradiction is laid bare. The believers yield all, into the arms of the Redeemer – who by his very nature can release nothing, can find nothing in the way of relief, and so can never surrender.

  Where then the Redeemer’s reward?

  Such questions were not for her. Perhaps indeed they were beyond answering. For now, there was before her a mundane concern, of the most sordid kind. A dozen ex-soldiers, probably from the Pannion Tenebrii, now terrorized the pilgrim encampment. Robbing the new arrivals before they could set their treasures upon the barrow. There had been beatings, and now a rape.

  This informal gathering, presumably the camp’s representatives, had sought her out, pleading for help, but what could she say to them? We were wrong to believe in the Benighted. I am sorry. He was not what we thought he was. He looked into my eyes and he refused. I am sorry. I cannot help you.

  ‘You say the Redeemer is troubled, Priestess,’ said the spokesman, a wiry middle-aged man who had once been a merchant in Capustan – fleeing west before the siege, a refugee in Saltoan who had seen with his own eyes the Expulsion, the night when the advance agents of the Pannion Domin were driven out of that city. He had been among the first of the pilgrims to arrive at the Great Barrow and now it seemed he would stay, perhaps for the rest of his life. Whatever wealth he had once possessed was now part of the barrow, now a gift to a god who had been a man, a man he had once seen with his own eyes. ‘Surely this is because of Gradithan and his thugs. The Redeemer was a soldier in his life. Will he not reach out and smite those who prey upon his followers?’

  Salind held out her hands, palms up. ‘Friend, we do not converse. My only gift is this . . . sensitivity. But I do not believe that the source of the Redeemer’s disquiet lies in the deeds of Gradithan and his cohorts. There was a burgeoning of . . . something. Not close at hand, yet of such power to make the ether tremble.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘It had the flavour of Kurald Galain – the warren of the Tiste Andii. And,’ she frowned, ‘something else that I have felt before. Many times, in fact. As if a storm raged far to the south, one that returns again and again.’

  Blank faces stared at her.

  Salind sighed. ‘See the clouds roll in from the sea – can we halt their progress? Can we – any of us – drive back the winds and rain, the hail? No. Such forces are far above us, far beyond our reach, and they rage as they will, fighting wars in the heavens. This, my friends, is what I am feeling – when something ripples through the ether, when a storm awakens to the south, when the Redeemer shifts uneasy and is troubled.’

  ‘Then we are nothing to him,’ said the merchant, sorrow brimming in his eyes. ‘I surrendered everything, all my wealth, for yet another indifferent god. If he cannot protect us, what is the point?’

  She wished that she had an answer to such questions. Were these not the very grist of priestly endeavours? To grind out palatable answers, to hint of promising paths to true salvation? To show a benign countenance gifted by god-given wisdom, glowing as if fanned by sacred breath? ‘It is my feeling,’ she said, haltingly, ‘that a faith that delivers perfect answers to every question is not a true faith, for its only purpose is to satisfy, to ease the mind and so end its questing.’ She held up a hand to still the objections she saw awakened among these six honest, serious believers. ‘Is it for faith to deliver peace, when on all sides inequity thrives? For it shall indeed thrive, when the blessed walk past blissfully blind, content in their own moral purity, in the peace filling their souls. Oh, you might then reach out a hand to the wretched by the roadside, offering them your own footprints, and you may see the blessed burgeon in number, grow into a multitude, until you are as an army. But there will be, will ever be, those who turn away from your hand. The ones who quest because it is in their nature to quest, who fear the seduction of self-satisfaction, who mistrust easy answers. Are these ones then to be your enemy? Does the army grow angered now? Does it strike out
at the unbelievers? Does it crush them underfoot?

  ‘My friends, is this not describing the terror this land has just survived?’ Her eyes fixed on the merchant. ‘Is this not what destroyed Capustan? Is this not what the rulers of Saltoan so violently rejected when they drove out the Pannion monks? Is this not what the Redeemer died fighting against?’

  ‘None of this,’ growled a woman, ‘eases my daughter’s pain. She was raped, and now there is nothing to be seen in her eyes. She has fled herself and may never return.

  Gradithan took her and destroyed her. Will he escape all punishment for such a thing? He laughed at me, when I picked up my daughter. When I stood before him with her limp in my arms, he laughed at me.’

  ‘The Benighted must return,’ said the merchant. ‘He must defend us. He must explain to us how we failed him.’

  Salind studied the faces before her, seeing the fear and the anger, the pain and the growing despair. It was not in her to turn them away, yet what could she do? She did not ask to become a priestess – she was not quite sure how it even happened. And what of her own pain? Her own broken history? What of the flesh she had once taken into her mouth? Not the bloody meat of a stranger, no. The First Born of the Tenescowri, Children of the Dead Seed, ah, they were to be special, yes, so special – willing to eat their own kin, and was that not proof of how special they were? What, then, of the terrible need that had brought her here?

  ‘You must go to him,’ said the merchant. ‘We know where to find him, in Black Coral – I can lead you to him, Priestess. Together, we will demand his help – he was a Seerdomin, a chosen sword of the tyrant. He owes us! He owes us all!’

  ‘I have tried—’

  ‘I will help you,’ insisted the merchant. ‘I will show him our desire to mend our ways. To accord the Benighted the proper respect.’

  Others nodded, and the merchant took this in and went on, ‘We will help. All of us here, we will stand with you, Priestess. Once he is made to understand what is happening, once we confront him – there in that damned tavern with that damned Tiste Andii he games with – how can he turn away from us yet again?’