A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

wasted in waiting.
And leave one exhausted, even less prepared than would
have been the case if, for example, she had spent that
period in an orgy of hedonistic abandon.
    Well, too late for regrets – she shook her head. Oh, it's
never too late for regrets. That's what regrets are all about,
you silly woman. She rose from the cushion and spent a
moment shaking out the creases in her robe. Should she
track down Endest Silann?
    Another heavy clatter of thunder.
    Of course he felt it, too, that old priest, the deathly
charge growing ever tauter – he didn't need her to remind
him, rushing in all hysterical foam to gush round the poor
man's ankles. The absurd image made her smile, but it
was a wry smile, almost bitter. She had worked hard at
affecting the cool repose so essential to the role of High
Priestess, a repose easily mistaken for wisdom. But how
could a woman in her position truly possess wisdom, when
the very goddess she served had rejected her and all that
she stood for? Not wisdom, but futility. Persistent, stubborn
futility. If anything, what she represented was a failure of
the intellect, and an even graver one of the spirit. Her
worship was founded on denial, and in the absence of a
true relationship with her goddess, she – like all those who
had come before her – was free to invent every detail of
that mock relationship.
    The lie of wisdom is best hidden in monologue. Dialogue
exposes it. Most people purporting to wisdom dare not
engage in dialogue, lest they reveal the paucity of their
assumptions and the frailty of their convictions. Better to
say nothing, to nod and look thoughtful.
    Was that notion worth a treatise? Yet another self-indulgent
meander for the hall of scrolls? How many
thoughts could one explore? Discuss, weigh, cast and
count? All indulgences. The woman looking for the next meal
for her child has no time for such things. The warrior shoulder
to shoulder in a line facing an enemy can only curse the so-called
wisdom that led him to that place. The flurry of kings
and their avaricious terrors. The brutal solidity of slights and
insults, grievances and disputes. Does it come down to who
will eat and who will not? Or does it come down to who will
control the option? The king's privilege in deciding who eats
and who starves, privilege that is the taste of power, its very
essence, in fact?
    Are gods and goddesses any different?
    To that question, she knew Anomander Rake would but
smile. He would speak of Mother Dark and the necessity
of every decision she made – even down to the last one of
turning away from her children. And he would not even
blink when stating that his betrayal had forced upon her
that final necessity.
    She would walk away then, troubled, until some stretch
of time later, when, in the solitude of her thoughts, she
would realize that, in describing the necessities binding
Mother Dark, he was also describing his very own necessities
– all that had bound him to his own choices.
    His betrayal of Mother Dark, she would comprehend
– with deathly chill – had been necessary.
    In Rake's mind, at any rate. And everything had simply
followed on from there, inevitably, inexorably.
    She could hear the rain lashing down on the temple's
domed roof, harsh as arrows on upraised shields. The sky
was locked in convulsions, a convergence of inimical
elements. A narrow door to her left opened and one of her
priestesses hurried in, then abruptly halted to bow. 'High
Priestess.'
    'Such haste,' she murmured in reply, 'so unusual for the
temple historian.'
    The woman glanced up, and her eyes were impressively
steady. 'A question, if I may.'
    'Of course.'
    'High Priestess, are we now at war?'
    'My sweetness – old friend – you have no idea.'
    The eyes widened slightly, and then she bowed a second
time. 'Will you summon Feral, High Priestess?'
    'That dour creature? No, let the assassin stay in her
tower. Leave her to lurk or whatever it is she does to occupy
her time.'
    'Spinnock Durav—'
    'Is not here, I know that. I know that.' The High Priestess
hesitated, and then said, 'We are now at war, as you
have surmised. On countless fronts, only one of which
– the one here – concerns us, at least for the moment. I do
not think weapons need be drawn, however.'
    'High Priestess, shall we prevail?'
    'How should I know?' Those words snapped out, to her
instant regret as she saw her old friend's gaze harden. 'The
risk,' she said, in a quieter tone, 'is the gravest we have
faced since . .