Where was Anomander Rake?
He… he is not here. He is not even here! I am his Mortal Sword! And he is not even here!
He screamed in fury. And power lashed out, rushing in a wall that tore tesserae from the broad floor as it ripped its way out from him, that shattered the pillars ringing the chamber so that they toppled back like felled trees. That engulfed the puny old man-
Endest Silann groaned under the assault. Like talons, the Dying God’s power sank deep into him, shredding his insides. This was too vast to resist. He yielded ground, pace hastening, moments from a rout, a terrified, fatal flight-
But there was nowhere to go. If he fell now, every Tiste Andii in Black Coral would be lost. Saemenkelyk would claim them all, and the city itself would suc-cumb to that dread stain. Kurald Galain would be corrupted, made to feed an alien god’s mad hunger for power.
And so, amidst a broken chorus of snapping bones and splitting flesh, Endest Silann held on.
Desperate, searching for a source of strength-anything, anyone-but Anomander Rake was gone. He had raged with power like a pillar of fire. He had been indomitable, and in reaching out a hand to settle firm on a shoulder, he could make his confidence a gift. He could make the ones who loved him do the impossible.
But now, he was gone.
And Endest Silann was alone.
He felt his soul withering, dying under this blistering assault.
And, from some vast depth, the old man recalled… a river.
Defiant of all light, deep, so deep where ran the currents-currents that no force could contain. He could slip into those sure streams, yes, if he but reached down…
But the pain, it was so fierce. It demanded all of him. He could not claw free of it, even as it devoured him.
The river-if he could but reach it-
The god possessing Clip laughed. Everything was within his grasp. He could led his cherished High Priestess, so lovingly usurped from the Redeemer’s clutches, so thoroughly seduced into the mindless dance of oblivion, the worship of wasted lives she was defeating the Redeemer’s lone guardian-he was falling back step by step, a mass of wounds, a dozen of them clearly fatal, and though somehow he still stood, still fought, he could not last much longer.
The god wanted the Redeemer. A more worthy vessel than the one named Clip, which was so venal in its thoughts, so miserable in its hurts. No better than a child burned by neglect, and now all it dreamed of was lashing out.
It believed it had come to confront its father, but there was no father here. There never had been. It had believed it was chosen to deliver justice, but the one named Clip-who had never seen justice-did not understand its true meaning, which ever belonged solely and exclusively within the cage of one’s own soul.
No, the god’s need for Clip was coming to an end. This vessel would be given over to Saemenkelyk, no different from all the others. To dance, to lie above the High Priestess and gush black semen into her womb-a deed without pleasure, for all pleasure was consumed by the Dying God’s own blood, by the sweet kelyk. And she would swell with the immortal gifts a thousand times, ten thousand times.
The sweetest poison, after all, is the one eagerly shared.
The god advanced on the kneeling old man. Time to kill the fool.
Aranatha’s hand was cool and dry in Nimander’s grasp as she led him through an unknown realm that left him blind, stumbling, like a dog beaten senseless, the leash of that hand tugging him on and on.
‘Please,’ he whispered, ‘where are we going?’
‘To battle,’ she replied, and her voice was almost unrecognizable.
Nimander felt a tremor of fear. Was this even Aranatha? Perhaps some demon had taken her place-yet the hand, yes, he knew it. Unchanged, so familiar in its ethereal touch. Like a glove with nothing in it-but no, he could feel it, firm, solid. Her hand, like everything else about her, was a mystery he had come to love.
The kiss she had given him-what seemed an eternity ago-he could feel it still, as if he had tasted something alien, something so far beyond him that he had no hope of ever understanding, of ever recognizing what it might be. A kiss, sweet as a blessing-but had it been Aranatha who had blessed him?
‘Aranatha-’
‘We are almost there-oh, will you defend me, Nimander? I can but reach through, not far, with little strength. It is all I have ever been able to do. But now… she insists. She commands.’
‘Who?’ he asked, suddenly chilled, suddenly shivering. ‘Who commands you?’
‘Why, Aranatha.’
But then-‘ Who-who are you?’
‘Will you defend me, Nimander? I do not deserve it. My errors are legion. My hurt I have made into your curse, a curse upon every one of you. But we are past apologies. We stand in the dust of what’s done.’