Gradithan licked his lips, tasting the staleness of dried kelyk. He wanted more, fresh, bitter and sweet, but he needed his mind. Sharp, awake, aware of everything.
As Monkrat directed two of his Urdomen to attend to the Seerdomin, Gradithan set off for the Sacred Tent. Sanctified ground, yes, but only temporary. Soon, they would have the barrow itself. The barrow, and the ignorant godling within it.
Along the track, the once-worshippers of the Redeemer knelt as he passed. Some moaned in the dregs of the night’s dance. Others stared at the mud in front of their knees, heads hanging, brown slime drooling down from their gaping mouths. Oh, this might seem like corruption, but Gradithan wasn’t interested in such misconceptions.
The Dying God was more important than Black Coral and its morose over shy;lords. More important than the Redeemer and his pathetic cult. The Dying God’s song was a song of pain, and was not pain the curse of mortality?
He had heard of another cult, a foreign one, devoted to someone called the Crippled God.
Perhaps, Monkrat had ventured that morning, there is a trend.
There was something blasphemous in that observation, and Gradithan reminded himself that he would have to have the mage beaten — but not yet. Gradithan needed Monkrat, at least for now.
He entered the Sacred Tent.
Yes, she was still dancing, writhing now on the earthen floor, too exhausted perhaps to stand, yet the sensual motions were still powerful enough to take away Gradithan’s breath. It did not matter any more that she had been a Child of the Dead Seed. No one could choose their parents, after all. Besides, she had been adopted now. By the Dying God, by the blessed pain and ecstasy it delivered.
Let her dance on, yes, until the gate was forced open.
Gradithan lifted his head, sniffed the air — oh, the blood was being spilled, the sacrifice fast closing on the threshold. Close now.
The Dying God bled. Mortal followers drank that blood. Then spilled it out, transformed, so that the Dying God could take it once more within himself. This was the secret truth behind all blood sacrifice. The god gives and the mortal gives back. All the rest. . nothing more than ornate dressing, nothing more than ob shy;fuscation.
Die, my distant friends. Die in your multitudes. We are almost there.
‘You are dying.’
Seerdomin opened his eyes. An unfamiliar face stared down at him.
‘You are bleeding into your brain, Segda Travos. They mean to abuse you. Tor shy;ture you with terrible sights — the Urdo named Gradithan believes you a traitor. He wants you to suffer, but you will defy him that pleasure, for you are dying.’
‘Who — what. .’
‘I am Itkovian. I am the Redeemer.’
‘I–I am sorry.’
The man smiled and Seerdomin could see how that smile belonged to these gentle features, the kind eyes. Such compassion was. . ‘Wrong’.
‘Perhaps it seems that way, but you are strong — your spirit is very strong, Segda Travos. You believe I am without true compassion. You believe I embrace suffering out of selfish need, to feed a hunger, an addiction.’ Itkovian’s soft eyes shifted away. ‘Perhaps you are right.’
Seerdomin slowly sat up. And saw a domed sky that glittered as if with millions upon millions of stars, a solid cluster vying for every space, so that every splinter and whorl of darkness seemed shrunken, in retreat. The vision made his head spin and he quickly looked down. And found he was kneeling on a ground composed entirely of coins. Copper, tin, brass, a few sprinkles of silver, fewer still of gold. Gems gleamed here and there. ‘We are,’ he said in an awed whisper, ‘within your barrow.’
‘Yes?’ said Itkovian.
Seerdomin shot the god a quick glance. ‘You did not know. .’
‘Is knowing necessary, Segda Travos?’
‘I no longer use that name. Segda Travos is dead. I am Seerdomin.’
‘Warrior Priest of the Pannion Seer. I see the warrior within you, but not the priest.’
‘It seems I am not much of a warrior any more,’ Seerdomin observed. ‘I was coming to save her.’
‘And now, my friend, you must fight her.’
‘What?’
Itkovian pointed.
Seerdomin twisted round where he knelt. A storm was building, seeping up into the dome of offerings, and he saw how the blackness engulfed those blazing stars, drowning them one by one. Beneath the savage churning clouds there was a figure. Dancing. And with each wild swing of an arm more midnight power spun outward, up into the growing storm cloud. She seemed to be a thousand or more paces away, yet grew larger by the moment.
He could see her mouth, gaping like a pit, from which vile liquid gushed out, splashing down, spraying as she twirled.
Salind. Gods, what has happened to you?
‘She wants me,’ Itkovian said. ‘It is her need, you see.’
‘Her need?’
‘Yes. For answers. What more can a god fear, but a mortal demanding an shy;swers?’
‘Send her away!’
‘I cannot. So, warrior, will you defend me?’
‘I cannot fight that!’
‘Then, my friend, I am lost.’
Salind came closer, and as she did so she seemed to lose focus in Seerdomin’s eyes, her limbs smearing the air, her body blurring from one position to the next. Her arms seemed to multiply, and in each one, he now saw, she held a weapon. Brown-stained iron, knotted wood trailing snags of hair, daggers of obsidian, scythes of crimson bronze.
Above her stained, weeping mouth, her eyes blazed with insane fire.
‘Redeemer,’ whispered Seerdomin.
‘Yes?’
‘Answer me one question. I beg you.’
‘Ask.’
And he faced the god. ‘Are you worth it?’
‘Am I worth the sacrifice you must make? No, I do not think so.’
‘You will not beg to be saved?’
Itkovian smiled. ‘Will you?’
No. I never have. He rose to his feet, found that the tulwar remained in his hand. He hefted the weapon and eyed Salind. Can I defy her need? Can I truly stand against that? ‘If not for your humility, Redeemer, I would walk away. If not for your. . uncertainty, your doubts, your humanity.’
And, awaiting no reply from the god, he set out into her path.
The sudden hush within the Scour Tavern finally penetrated Spinnock Durav’s drunken haze. Blinking, he tilted his head, and found himself looking up at his Lord.
Who said, ‘It is time, my friend.’
‘You now send me away?’ Spinnock asked.
‘Yes. I now send you away.’
Spinnock Durav reeled upright. His face was numb. The world seemed a sickly place, and it wanted in. He drew a deep breath.
‘My request pains you — why?’
He could have told him then. He could have spoken of this extraordinary blessing of love. For a human woman. He could have told Anomander Rake of his failure, and in so doing he would have awakened the Son of Darkness to his sordid plight.
Had he done all of this, Anomander Rake would have reached a hand to rest light on his shoulder, and he would have said, Then you must stay, my friend. For love, you must stay — go to her, now. Now, Spinnock Durav. It is the last gift within our reach. The last — did you truly believe I would stand in the way of that? That I would decide that my need was greater?
Did you think I could do such a thing, when I come to you here and now be shy;cause of my own love? For you? For our people?
Go to her, Spinnock Durav. Go.
But Spinnock Durav said nothing. Instead, he bowed before his Lord. ‘I shall do as you ask.’
And Anomander Rake said, ‘It is all right to fail, friend. I do not demand the impossible of you. Do not weep at that moment. For me, Spinnock Durav, find a smile to announce the end. Fare well.’