A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

brother, Orfantal. Nevertheless, Whiskeyjack
had been a man in his late forties – 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 descend 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 ending 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 beneath 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
boy-like 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 nothing veiled in her eyes. 'We do what
we can.'
    'Yes.'
    'No, you don't understand. The Temple – my priestesses.
We try as Anomander 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 burdens, 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 – its future – will be found in what
happens now, in these first moments. And that is a cause
for concern, 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.