A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

a lie, duty a weapon that
silenced, and courage itself was stained and foul. Suddenly,
then, there was no defence against injustice, no sanctuary
to be found in memories of a righteous time. And so anger
seethed upward, filling every crack, building into rage.
There was no way to give it a voice, no means of releasing
it, and so the pressure built. When it finally overwhelmed,
then suicide seemed the easiest option, the only true
escape.
    Seerdomin could see the logic of that, but logic was not
enough. Anyone could reason themselves into a corner,
and so justify surrender. It was even easier when courage
itself was vulnerable to abuse and sordid mockery. Because,
after all, to persist, to live on, demanded courage, and that
was only possible when the virtue remained worthy of
respect.
    Seerdomin lifted his head and glared over at the
decapitated corpse. 'Can you understand any of that,
Harak? Can you grasp, now, finally, how the very existence
of people like you gives me reason to stay alive? Because
you give my rage a face, and my sword, well, it's hungry
for faces.' It was either that, or the fury within him would
devour his own soul. No, better to keep the face he slashed
open someone else's, rather than his own. Keep finding
them, one after another. Justice was so weak. The corrupt
won, the pure of heart failed and fell to the wayside. Graft
and greed crowed triumphant over responsibility and
compassion. He could fight that, and that fight need not
even be in his own name. He could fight for Black Coral,
for the Tiste Andii, for humanity itself.
    Even for the Redeemer – no, that cannot be. What I do
here can never be healed – there can be no redemption for me.
Ever. You must see that. All of you must see that.
    He realized he was pleading – but to whom? He did not
know. We were put in an impossible situation, and, at least for
us, the tyrant responsible is dead – has been punished. It could
have been worse – he could have escaped retribution, escaped
justice.
    There was trauma in war. Some people survived it;
others were for ever trapped in it. For many of those,
this circumstance was not a failing on their part. Not
some form of sickness, or insanity. It was, in truth, the
consequence of a profoundly moral person's inability to
reconcile the conflicts in his or her soul. No healer could
heal that, because there was nothing to heal. No elixir
swept the malady away. No salve erased the scars. The
only reconciliation possible was to make those responsible
accountable, to see them face justice. And more often than
not, history showed that such an accounting rarely ever
took place. And so the veteran's wounds never mend, the
scars never fade, the rage never subsides.
    So Seerdomin had come to believe, and he well knew
that what he was doing here, with weapon in hand, solved
nothing of the conflict within him. For he was as flawed
as anyone, and no matter how incandescent his rage, his
righteous fury, he could not deliver pure, unsullied justice
– for such a thing was collective, integral to a people's
identity. Such a thing must be an act of society, of civilization. Not Tiste Andii society – they clearly will not accept that
burden, will not accede to meting out justice on behalf of us
humans, nor should they be expected to. And so . . . here I am,
and I hear the Redeemer weep.
    One cannot murder in the name of justice.
    Irreconcilable. What he had been, what he was now.
    The things he did then, and all he was doing here, at this
moment.
    The would-be usurper knelt beside him, headless in sour
symbolism. But it was a complicated, messy symbol. And
he could find for himself but one truth in all of this.
    Heads roll downhill.
    It may be that in the belief of the possibility of redemption,
people willingly do wrong. Redemption waits, like a side door,
there in whatever court of judgement we eventually find ourselves.
Not even the payment of a fine is demanded, simply
the empty negotiation that absolves responsibility. A shaking of
hands and off one goes, through that side door, with the judge
benignly watching on. Culpability and consequences neatly
evaded.
    Oh, Salind was in a crisis indeed. Arguments reduced
until the very notion of redemption was open to challenge.
The Redeemer embraced, taking all within himself.
Unquestioning, delivering absolution as if it was without
value, worthless, whilst the reward to those embraced was
a gift greater than a tyrant's hoard.
    Where was justice in all of this?