A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

of
reciprocity?
    Well, she would not bargain. No, she had questions, and
she wanted answers. She demanded answers. If the faith
that was given to a god came from nothing more than
selfish desires, then it was no less sordid than base greed. If
to hand over one's soul to a god was in fact a surrendering
of will, then that soul was worthless, a willing slave for
whom freedom – and all the responsibility that entailed
– was anathema.
    She found herself reeling through the gate, on to
the road that Seerdomin once walked day after day. It
had begun raining, the drops light, cool on her fevered
forehead, sweet as tears in her eyes. Not much grew to
either side of the road, not even the strange Andiian plants
that could be found in the walled and rooftop gardens.
The dying moon had showered this place in salt water, a
downpour the remnants of which remained as white crust
like a cracked skin on the barren earth.
    She could smell the sea rising around her as she
staggered on.
    And then, suddenly, she stumbled into daylight, the
sun's shafts slanting in from the east whilst a single grey
cloud hung directly overhead, the rain a glittering tracery
of angled streaks.
    Bare feet slipping on the road's cobbles, Salind continued
on. She could see the barrow ahead, glistening and freshly
washed, with the mud thick and churned up round its base.
There were no pilgrims to be seen – perhaps it was too
early. Perhaps they have all left. But no, she could see smoke
rising from cookfires in the encampment. Have they lost
their way, then? Is that surprising? Have I not suffered my own
crisis of faith?
    She drew closer, gaze fixed now on the barrow.
    Redeemer! You will hear me. You must hear me!
    She fell on to her knees in the mud and its chill rippled
up through her. The rain was past and steam now rose on
all sides. Water ran in trickles everywhere on the barrow,
a hundred thousand tears threading through all the offerings.
    Redeemer—
    A fist closed in the short hair at the back of her neck.
She was savagely pulled upright, head yanked round. She
stared up into Gradithan's grinning face.
    'You should never have come back,' the man said. His
breath stank of kelyk, and she saw the brown stains on his
lips and mouth. His eyes looked strangely slick, like stones
washed by waves. 'I am tempted, Priestess, to give you to
my Urdomen – not that they'd have you.'
    Urdomen. He was an Urdo, a commander of the fanatic
élites. Now I begin to underst—
    'But Monkrat might.'
    She frowned. What had he been saying? 'Leave me,'
she said, and was shocked at how thin and weak her voice
sounded. 'I want to pray.'
    He twisted his grip, forcing her round to face him, close
enough to be lovers. 'Monkrat!'
Someone came up beside them.
    'Get some saemankelyk. I'd like to see how well she
dances.'
    She could feel his hard knuckles pressing the back of her
neck, twisting and ripping hair from its roots, pushing into
the bruises he'd already made.
    'I can give you nothing,' she said.
    'Oh, but you will,' he replied. 'You'll give us a path,' and
he turned her back to face the barrow, 'straight to him.'
    She did not understand, and yet fear gripped her, and as
she heard someone hurrying up, bottle swishing, her fear
burgeoned into terror.
    Gradithan tugged her head further back. 'You are going
to drink, woman. Waste a drop and you'll pay.'
    Monkrat came close, lifting the bottle with its stained
mouth to her lips.
    She sought to twist her face away but the Urdo's grip
denied that. He reached up with his other hand and closed
her nostrils.
    'Drink, and then you can breathe again.'
    Salind drank.
    Finding her gone from her room, Spinnock Durav stood for
a long moment, staring down at the rumpled mattress of
the cot, noting the missing blanket, seeing that she'd left
most of her clothes behind, including her moccasins. He
told himself he should not be surprised. She had not much
welcomed his attentions.
    Still, he felt as if some cold, grinning bastard had carved
a gaping hole in his chest. It was absurd, that he should
have been careless enough, complacent enough, to find
himself this vulnerable. A human woman of so few years
– he was worse than some old man sitting on the temple
steps and drooling at every young thing sauntering past.
Love could be such a squalid emotion: burning bright in
the midst of pathos, the subject of pity and contempt, it
blazed with brilliant stupidity all the same.
    Furious with himself, he wheeled about and strode from
the