A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

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 feeling 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 continued 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.
    Words were empty in the face of brutal will. They were
helpless to defend whatever sanctity might be claimed, for
a person's self, for their freedom to choose how they would
live, and with whom. Empathy haunted her. Compassion
opened wounds which only a hardening of the soul could in
the future prevent, and this she did not want – she had seen
too many faces, looked into too many eyes, and recoiled
from their coldness, their delight in vicious judgement.
    The righteous will claim sole domain on judgement. The
righteous are the first to make hands into fists, the first to shout
down dissenters, the first to bully others into compliance.
    I live in a village of the meek, and I am the meekest of them
all. There is no glory in being helpless. Nor is there hope.
    Rain lashing down, a drumming roar on the slatted,
angled roof, the sound of a deluge that filled her skull. That the Redeemer will embrace is neither just nor unjust.
No mortal can sanction their behaviour in the Redeemer's
name. How dare they so presume? Miserable faces marching
past, peering in through the cracks in her door. And she
wanted to rail at them all. You damned fools. Absolution is
not enough! But they would then look upon her, moon-eyed
and doleful, desperate that every question yield an answer,
clinging to the notion that one suffered for a reason and
knowledge of that reason would ease the suffering.
    Knowledge, Salind told herself, eases nothing. It just fills
spaces that might otherwise flood with despair.
    Can you live without answers? All of you, ask that of yourself.
Can you live without answers? Because if you cannot,
then most assuredly you will invent your own answers and they
will comfort you. And all those who do not share your view will
by their very existence strike fear and hatred into your heart.
What god blesses this?
    'I am no High Priestess,' she croaked, as water trickled
down her face.
    Heavy boots splashing in the mud outside. The door
was tugged back and a dark shape blotted out the pale grey
light. 'Salind.'
    She blinked, trying to discern who so spoke to her with
such . . . such compassion. 'Ask me nothing,' she said. 'Tell
me less.'
    The figure moved, closing the door in a scrape of sodden
grit that filled the shed with gloom once more. Pausing,
standing, water dripping from a long leather cloak. 'This
will not do.'
    'Whoever you are,' Salind said, 'I did not invite you in.
    This is my home.'
    'My apologies, High Priestess.'
    'You smell of sex.'
    'Yes, I imagine so.'
    'Do not touch me. I am poison.'
    'I – I have no desire to . . . touch you, High