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 short-lived, 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 afraid, 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 at 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 despera¬tion, 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 to 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 tlw 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 pil¬grim 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 soiry. 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 Gra-dithan 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.’