What lay in the tavern was only the beginning. Merely Clip and his momentary, failing frenzy.
From this point on, what comes belongs to us.
To that, even Phaed was silent. While somewhere in the mists of his mind, so faint as to be almost lost, a woman wept.
It was a quirk of blind optimism that held that someone broken could, in lime, heal, could reassemble all the pieces and emerge whole, perhaps even stronger for the ordeal. Certainly wiser, for what else could be the reward for suffering? Tht notion that did not sit well, with anyone, was that one so broken might remain that way-neither dying (and so removing the egregious example of failure from all mortal eyes) nor improving. A ruined soul should not be stubborn, should not cling to what was clearly a miserable existence.
Friends recoil. Acquaintances drift away. And the one who fell finds a solitary world, a place where no refuge could be found from loneliness when loneliness was the true reward of surviving for ever maimed, for ever weakened. Yet who would not choose that fate, when the alternative was pity?
Of course, pity was a virtually extinct sentiment among the Tiste Andii, and this Endest Silann saw as a rare blessing among his kind. He could not have suffered such regard for very long. As for the torment of his memories, well, it was truly extraordinary how long one could weather that assault. Yet he knew he was not unique in this matter-it was the burden of his entire people, after all. Sufficient to mitigate his loneliness? Perhaps.
Darkness had been silent for so long now, his dreams of hearing the whisper of his realm-of his birthplace-were less than ashes. It was no wonder, then, was it, that he now sat in the gloom of his chamber, sheathed in sweat, each trickle seeming to drink all warmth from his flesh. Yes, they had manifested Kurald Galain here in this city, an act of collective will. Yet it was a faceless power-Mother Dark had left them, and no amount of desire on their part could change that.
So, then, what is this?
Who speaks with such power?
Not a whisper but a shout, a cry that bristled with… what? With affront. Indignation. Outrage. Who is this?
He knew that he was not alone in sensing this assault-others must be feeling it, throughout Black Coral. Every Tiste Andii probably sat or stood motionless at this moment, heart pounding, eyes wide with fear and wonder. And, perhaps,hope.
Could it be?
He thought to visit the temple, to hear from the High Priestess herself… something, a pronouncement, a recognition proclaimed. Instead, he found himself staggering out of his room, hurrying up the corridor, and then ascending the stairs, round and round as if caught in a swirling fever. Out into his Lord’s south-facing demesne-stumbling in to find Anomander Rake seated in his high-backed chair, facing the elongated window and, far below, crashing seas painted black and silver as deep, unknown currents thrashed.
‘My Lord,’ Endest gasped.
‘Did I have a choice?’ Anomander Rake asked, gaze still on the distant tumult.
‘My lord?’
Kharkanas. Did you agree with her., assessment? Endest Silann? Did I not see true what was to come? Before Light’s arrival,, we were in a civil war. Vulnerable to the forces soon to be born. Without the blood of Tiamatha, I could never have enforced… peace, unification.’
‘Sire,’ said Endest Silann, then found he could not go on.
Rake seemed to understand, for he sighed and said, ‘Yes, a most dubious peace. For so many, the peace of death. As for unification, well, that proved woefully short-lived, did it not? Still, I wonder, if I had succeeded-truly succeeded-would that have changed her mind?’
‘My Lord-something is happening.’
‘Yes.’
‘What must we do?’
‘Ah, my friend, you are right to ask that. Never mind the High Priestess and her answer-always the same one with her, yes? Who cries the war cry of Kurald Galain? Let us seek the answer between her legs. Even that can grow tiresome, eventually. Although do not repeat my words to Spinnock Durav-I would not disaffect his occasional pleasure.’
Endest Silann wanted to shriek, wanted to lunge against his Lord, grasp him by the neck, and force out-force out what? He did not know. The Son of Darkness was, to his mind, the smartest creature-mortal, immortal, it mattered not-that he had ever met. His thoughts travelled a thousand tracks simultaneously, and no conversation with him could be predicted, no path deemed certain.
‘I cannot give answer this time,’ Anomander Rake then said. ‘Nor, I am afraid, can Spinnock. He will be needed… elsewhere.’ And now his head turned, and his eyes fixed upon Endest Silann. ‘It must fall to you, again. Once more.’