‘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?

‘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.’