Of course he felt it, too, that old priest, the deathly charge growing ever tauter — he didn’t need her to remind him, rushing in all hysterical foam to gush round the poor man’s ankles. The absurd image made her smile, but it was a wry smile, almost bitter. She had worked hard at affecting the cool repose so essential to the role of High Priestess, a repose easily mistaken for wisdom. But how could a woman in her position truly possess wisdom, when the very goddess she served had rejected her and all that she stood for? Not wisdom, but futility. Persistent, stubborn futility. If anything, what she represented was a failure of the intellect, and an even graver one of the spirit. Her worship was founded on denial, and in the absence of a true relationship with her goddess, she — like all those who had come before her — was free to invent every detail of that mock relationship.
The lie of wisdom is best hidden in monologue. Dialogue exposes it. Most people purporting to wisdom dare not engage in dialogue, lest they reveal the paucity of their assumptions and the frailty of their convictions. Better to say nothing, to nod and look thoughtful.
Was that notion worth a treatise? Yet another self-indulgent meander for the hall of scrolls? How many thoughts could one explore? Discuss, weigh, cast and count?
To that question, she knew Anomander Rake would but smile. He would speak of Mother Dark and the necessity of every decision she made — even down to the last one of turning away from her children. And he would not even blink when stating that his betrayal had forced upon her that final necessity.
She would walk away then, troubled, until some stretch of time later, when, in the solitude of her thoughts, she would realize that, in describing the necessities binding Mother Dark, he was also describing his very own necessities — all that had bound him to his own choices.
His betrayal of Mother Dark, she would comprehend — with deathly chill — had been
In Rake’s mind, at any rate. And everything had simply followed on from there, inevitably, inexorably.
She could hear the rain lashing down on the temple’s domed roof, harsh as ar shy;rows on upraised shields. The sky was locked in convulsions, a convergence of in shy;imical elements. A narrow door to her left opened and one of her priestesses hurried in, then abruptly halted to bow. ‘High Priestess.’
‘Such haste,’ she murmured in reply, ‘so unusual for the temple historian.’
The woman glanced up, and her eyes were impressively steady. ‘A question, if I may.’
‘Of course.’
‘High Priestess, are we now at war?’
‘My sweetness — old friend — you have no idea.’
The eyes widened slightly, and then she bowed a second time. ‘Will you sum shy;mon Feral, High Priestess?’
‘That dour creature? No, let the assassin stay in her tower. Leave her to lurk or whatever it is she does to occupy her time.’
‘Spinnock Durav-’
‘Is not here, I know that. I know that.’ The High Priestess hesitated, and then said, ‘We are now at war, as you have surmised. On countless fronts, only one of which — the one here — concerns us, at least for the moment. I do not think weapons need be drawn, however.’
‘High Priestess, shall we prevail?’
‘How should I know?’ Those words snapped out, to her instant regret as she saw her old friend’s gaze harden. ‘The risk,’ she said, in a quieter tone, ‘is the gravest we have faced since. . well, since Kharkanas.’
That shocked the temple historian — when nothing else had, thus far. But she recovered and, drawing a deep breath, said, ‘Then I must invoke my role, High Priestess. Tell me what must be told. All of it.’
‘For posterity?’
‘Is that not my responsibility?’
