Toll the Hounds полностью

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 shy;ing veiled in her eyes. ‘We do what we can.’

‘Yes.’

‘No, you don’t understand. The Temple — my priestesses. We try as Anoman shy;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 shy;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 shy;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. ‘I 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 shy;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 shy;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.