Now see what you’ve done.
She hurried after her brainless sister.
Skintick wanted to weep, but he knew enough to save that for later, for that final stumble through, into some future place when all this was over and done with, when they could each return to a normal life, an almost peaceful life.
He had never been one for prayers, especially not to Mother Dark, whose heart was cruel, whose denial was an ever-bleeding wound in the Tiste Andii. Yet he prayed none the less. Not to a god or goddess, not to some unknown force at ease with the gift of mercy. No, Skintick prayed for peace.
A world of calm.
He did not know if such a world existed, anywhere. He did not know if one such as he deserved that world. Paradise belonged to the innocent.
Which was why it was and would ever remain. . empty.
And that is what makes it a paradise.
At the outer doors, the slaughter continued. Kedeviss saw Nenanda smiling, and had she the time, she would have slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to shake the glee from his eyes. There was nothing glorious in this. The fools came on and on, crushing each other in their need, and she and Nenanda killed them one by one by one.
Oh, fighting against absurd odds was something they were used to; something they did damnably well. That was no source of pride. Desperate defence demanded expedience and little else. And the Tiste Andii were, above all else, an expedient people.
And so blood spilled down, bodies crumpled at their feet, only to be dragged clear by the next ones to die.
She killed her twentieth worshipper, and he was no different from the nineteenth, no different from the very first one, back there on the steps.
Blood like rain. Blood like tears. It was all so pointless.
Nenanda began laughing.
Moments later, the worshippers changed their tactics. With frenzied screams they pushed forward en masse, and those Nenanda and Kedeviss mortally wounded were simply heaved ahead, dying, flailing shields of flesh and bone. As the mob drove onward, the two Tiste Andii were forced from the threshold-
And the attackers poured in with triumphant shrieks.
Nenanda stopped laughing.
Nimander was at the inner doorway when he heard the savage cries behind him. Spinning round, he saw Nenanda and Kedeviss retreating under an onslaught of maddened figures.
‘Skintick!’
His cousin shifted Clip’s body on to Nimander’s shoulders, then turned and, drawing his sword once more, plunged into the melee. Nimander staggered into the passageway.
Why? Why are we doing this? We deliver Clip to the Dying God, like a damned sacrifice. Ahead, he saw Desra and Aranatha approaching the far end, where it seemed there was another chamber. The altar room — where he awaits us- ‘Stop!’ he shouted.
Only Desra glanced back.
Aranatha strode within.
The reek of burning kelyk assailed Nimander and he stumbled as he moved forward beneath the slack, dragging weight of Clip’s unconscious form. The raw glyphs swarmed on the walls to either side. Projecting busts of some past deity showed battered faces, sections crushed and others sheared off by recent demolition. Lone eyes leered down. Half-mouths smiled with a jester’s crook. Passing by one after another.
Trembling, Nimander forced himself forward. He saw Desra stride after Aranatha.
The glyphs began weeping, and all at once he felt as if time itself was dissolving. Sudden blindness, the terrible sounds of fighting behind him diminishing, as if pulled far away, until only the rush of blood remained, a storm in his head.
Through which, faintly and then rising, came a child’s voice. Singing softly.
Seerdomin emerged from Night, squinted against the mid-morning glare. Silver clouds ahead, heaped above the barrow like the sky’s detritus. Rain slanted down on the mound.
Tulwar in his hand, he hurried on, boots slipping in the salt-crusted mud of the track.
She had gone out, alone.
Spinnock Durav — the only friend he had left — had professed his love for her. But he had not understood — yes, she would refuse his help. But such refusal must be denied. He should have comprehended that.
Gods below, this was not Seerdomin’s fight. She was not his fight. Yet he found himself driven on, cold with fear, feverish with dread, and every shy;thing that he saw around him seemed to scream its details, as if even the mun shy;dane truths could burn, could sting like acid in his eyes. Ruts and broken spokes, potsherds, pools of opaque water, exposed roots like the hackles of the earth each one ferociously demanding his attention. We are as it is, they seemed to shout, we are all there is! We are-
Not his fight, but Spinnock had not understood. He was Tiste Andii. He was a creature of centuries and what was avoided one day could be addressed later — decades, millennia, ages later. In their eyes, nothing changed. Nothing could change. They were a fallen people. The dream of getting back up had faded to dust.
She had gone out. Alone. Out where the conspirators strutted in the light of day, insanely plotting the return of suffering. Where they abused the sanctuary of an indifferent god. Maybe she was now back among her kind — if that was true, then Spinnock Durav deserved to hear the truth of that.
A rat slithered into the ditch a few strides ahead. He drew closer to the filth of the encampment, its stench so foul not even the rain could wash it away.
Would he be challenged? He hoped so. If the conspirators hid themselves, he might have trouble rooting them out. And if she decided to hide, well, he would have to kick through every decrepit hut and shelter, into every leaking tent and rust-seized wagon.
Birdsong drifted down from the trees of the slope on the opposite side of the camp, the sound startlingly clear. Tendrils of smoke from rain-dampened hearths undulated upward, each one solid as a serpent in Seerdomin’s eyes. He was, he realized, walking into their nest.
But Spinnock, you need not do this, you need not even know of this. This is a human affair, and if she is willing then yes, I will drag her free of it. Back to you. One can he saved and that should be enough.
He wondered if the Redeemer ever saw things that way. Taking one soul into his embrace with a thousand yearning others looking on — but no, he did not choose, did not select one over another. He took them all.
Seerdomin realized he did not care either way. This god was not for him. Redemption had never been his reason for kneeling before that barrow. I was lonely. I thought he might be the same. Damn you, High Priestess, why didn’t you just leave me alone?
Not my mess.
Spinnock, you owe me, and you will never know. I will say nothing — let this rain wash the blood from my hands-
He had begun this march half drunk, but nothing of that remained. Now, everything was on fire.
Reaching the slope of the camp’s main avenue, he began the ascent. The rain was fine as mist, yet he was quickly soaked through, steam rising from his forearms. The ground gave queasily beneath his boots with every step. He arrived at the crest leaning far forward, scrabbling in his haste.
Straightening, something flashed into his vision. He heard a snap, a crunch that exploded in his head, and then nothing.
Gradithan stood over the sprawled form of Seerdomin, staring down at the smashed, bloodied face. Monkrat crept closer and crouched down beside the body.
‘He lives. He will drown in his blood if I do not roll him over, Urdo. What is your wish?’
‘Yes, push him over — I want him alive, for now at least. Take his weapons, bind his limbs, then drag him to the Sacred Tent.’