‘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 shy;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.
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 shy;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 shy;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 shy;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 shy;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 shy;ing her husband’s life. Was this a thing to look forward to?
‘If not for your desire I could feel in my nest,’ said the woman now lying be shy;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.
‘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.’
