A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

voices—
    And opened her eyes. Low candlelight surrounded her.
She was lying on a bed. The voices embraced her from all
sides and, blinking, she sought to sit up.
    So weak—
    An arm slipped behind her shoulders, helped her rise
as pillows were pushed underneath. She stared up at a
familiar, alien face. 'Spinnock Durav.'
    He nodded.
    Others were rising into view now. Tiste Andii women,
all in dark shapeless robes, eyes averted as they began filing
out of the chamber, taking their chanting song with them.
    Those voices – so heavy, so solid – they truly belonged
to these women? She was astonished, half disbelieving, and
yet . . .
    'You almost died,' Spinnock Durav said. 'The healers
called you back – the priestesses.'
    'But – why?'
    His smile was wry. 'I called in a favour or two. But I
think, once they attended you, there was more to it. An
obligation, perhaps. You are, after all, a sister priestess – oh,
betrothed to a different ascendant, true enough, but that
did not matter. Or,' and he smiled again, 'so it turned out.'
    Yes, but why? Why did you bring me back? I don't want —
oh, she could not complete that thought. Understanding
now, at last, how vast the sin of suicide – of course, it would
not have been that, would it? To have simply slipped away,
taken by whatever sickness afflicted her. Was it not a kind
of wisdom to surrender?
    'No,' she mumbled, 'it isn't.'
    'Salind?'
    'To bless,' she said, 'is to confer a hope. Is that enough?
To make sacred the wish for good fortune, a fulfilled life?
What can it achieve?'
    He was studying her face. 'High Priestess,' he now said,
haltingly, as if truly attempting an answer, 'in blessing, you
purchase a moment of peace, in the one being blessed, in
the one for whom blessing is asked. Perhaps it does not last,
but the gift you provide, well, its value never fades.'
    She turned her head, looked away. Beyond the candles,
she saw a wall crowded with Andiian hieroglyphs and a
procession of painted figures, all facing one way, to where
stood the image of a woman whose back was turned,
denying all those beseeching her. A mother rejecting her
children – she could see how the artist had struggled with
all those upturned faces, the despair and anguish twisting
them – painted in tears, yes.
    'I must go back,' she said.
    'Back? Where?'
    'The camp, the place of the pilgrims.'
    'You are not yet strong enough, High Priestess.'
    Her words to him had stripped away his using her
chosen name. He was seeing her now as a High Priestess.
She felt a twinge of loss at that. But now was not the time
to contemplate the significance of such things. Spinnock
Durav was right – she was too weak. Even these thoughts
exhausted her. 'As soon as I can,' she said.
    'Of course.'
    'They are in danger.'
    'What would you have me do?'
    She finally looked back at him. 'Nothing. This belongs
to me. And Seerdomin.'
    At the mention of that name the Tiste Andii winced.
'High Priestess—'
'He will not reject me again.'
    'He is missing.'
    'What?'
    'I cannot find him. I am sorry, but I am fairly certain he
is no longer in Black Coral.'
    'No matter,' she said, struggling to believe her own
words. 'No matter. He will come when he is needed.' She
could see that Spinnock Durav was sceptical, but she would
not berate him for that. 'The Redeemer brought me to the
edge of death,' she said, 'to show me what was needed. To
show me why I was needed.' She paused. 'Does that sound
arrogant? It does, doesn't it?'
    His sigh was ragged. He stood. 'I will return to check on
you, High Priestess. For now, sleep.'
    Oh, she had offended him, but how? 'Wait, Spinnock
Durav—'
    'It is all right,' he said. 'You have misread me. Well,
perhaps not entirely. You spoke of your god showing you
what was needed – something we Tiste Andii ever yearn
for but will not ever achieve. Then you doubt yourself.
Arrogance? Abyss below, High Priestess. Is this how you
feel when the Redeemer blesses you?'
    Then she was alone in the chamber. Candle flames
wavering in the wake of Spinnock Durav's departure, the
agitated light making the figures writhe on the walls.
    Still the mother stood, turned away.
    Salind felt a twist of anger. Bless your children, Mother
Dark. They have suffered long enough. I say this in gratitude
to your own priestesses, who have given me back my life. I say
it in the name of redemption. Bless your children, woman.
    The candles settled once more, flames standing tall, immune
to Salind's meek agitations. Nowhere in