Toll the Hounds

Well, she would not bargain. No, she had questions, and she wanted answers. She demanded answers. If the faith that was given to a god came from nothing more than selfish desires, then it was no less sordid than base greed. If to hand over one’s soul to a god was in fact a surrendering of will, then that soul was worthless, a willing slave for whom freedom-and all the responsibility that entailed-was anathema.

She found herself reeling through the gate, on to the road that Seerdomin once walked day after day. It had begun raining, the drops light, cool on her fevered forehead, sweet as tears in her eyes. Not much grew to either side of the road, not even the strange Andiian plants that could be found in the walled and rooftop gardens. The dying moon had showered this place in salt water, a downpour the remnants of which remained as white crust like a cracked skin on the barren earth.

She could smell the sea rising around her as she staggered on.

And then, suddenly, she stumbled into daylight, the sun’s shafts slanting in from the east whilst a single grey cloud hung directly overhead, the rain a glittering tracery of angled streaks.

Bare feet slipping on the road’s cobbles, Salind continued on. She could see the barrow ahead, glistening and freshly washed, with the mud thick and churned up round its base. There were no pilgrims to be seen-perhaps it was too early. Perhaps they have all left. But no, she could see smoke rising from cookfires in the encampment. Have they lost their way, then!Ts that surprising? Have I not suffered my own crisis of faith?

She drew closer, gaze fixed now on the barrow.

Redeemer! You will hear me. You must hear me!

She fell on to her knees in the mud and its chill rippled up through her. The rain was past and steam now rose on all sides. Water ran in trickles everywhere on the barrow, a hundred thousand tears threading through all the offerings.

Redeemer-

A fist closed in the short hair at the back of her neck. She was savagely pulled upright, head yanked round. She stared up into Gradithan’s gri

‘You should never have come back,’ the man said. His breath stank of kelyk, and she saw the brown stains on his lips and mouth. His eyes looked strangely slick, like stones washed by waves. ‘I am tempted, Priestess, to give you to my Urdomen-not that they’d have you.’Urdomen. He was an Urdo, a commander of the fanatic elites. Now I begin to underst-

‘But Monkrat might.’

She frowned. What had he been saying? ‘Leave me,’ she said, and was shocked at how thin and weak her voice sounded. ‘I want to pray.’

He twisted his grip, forcing her round to face him, close enough to be lovers. ‘Monkrat!’

Someone came up beside them.

‘Get some saemankelyk. I’d like to see how well she dances.’ She could feel his hard knuckles pressing the back of her neck, twisting and ripping hair from its roots, pushing into the bruises he’d already made. ‘I can give you nothing,’ she said.

‘Oh, but you will,’ he replied. ‘You’ll give us a path,’ and he turned her back to face the barrow, ‘straight to him.’

She did not understand, and yet fear gripped her, and as she heard someone hurrying up, bottle swishing, her fear burgeoned into terror.

Gradithan tugged her head further back. ‘You are going to drink, woman. Waste a drop and you’ll pay.’

Monkrat came close, lifting the bottle with its stained mouth to her lips.

She sought to twist her face away but the Urdo’s grip denied that. He reached up with his other hand and closed her nostrils.

‘Drink, and then you can breathe again.’

Salind drank.

Finding her gone from her room, Spi

Still, he felt as if some cold, gri

Furious with himself, he wheeled about and strode from the room.

In a city of unending Night, no bell was too early for a drink. He left the temple and the keep, made his way down ghostly streets to the Scour.

Inside, Resto was behind the bar, red-eyed and scratching at his beard and saying nothing as Spi

Glaring at the other tables-all empty; he was the only customer-Spi

Spi

As if unaware of his reaction, Seerdomin came to Spi

‘She doesn’t want my help,’ Spi

Seerdomin said nothing as he poured ale into his tankard, setting the jug back down with a thump. ‘What are you talking about?’

Spi

‘That desperate for a game?’

A game? Oh. Kef Tanar. ‘You are looking at a pathetic old man, Seerdomin. I fed I must sacrifice the last of my dignity, here and now, and tell you everything.’

‘I don’t know if I’m ready for that,’ the man replied. ‘Your dignity is important to me.’

Spi

‘Well. You can’t marry her, though, can you?’

‘Who?’

‘The High Priestess-although it’s about time you realized that she loves you in return, probably always has. You damned Andii-you live so long it’s as if you’re incapable of grasping on to things in the here and now. If I had your endless years… no, scratch out the eyes of that thought. I don’t want them. I’ve lived too long as it is.’

Spi

‘Gods below, Spi

‘I know that. I’ve as much as confessed it, for Hood’s sake.’

‘So you’re not interested in making the High Priestess happier than she’s been in a thousand years. Fine. That’s your business. Some other woman, then. Careful, someone might up and murder her. Jealousy is deadly.’

This was too offhand for Seerdomin, too loose, too careless. It had the sound of a man who had surrendered to despair, no longer caring-about anything. Loosing every arrow in his quiver, eager to see it suddenly, fatally empty. This Seerdomin frightened Spi

‘I have been murdering people.’ He poured another round, then settled back in his chair, ‘Eleven so far. They saw themselves as liberators. Scheming the downfall of their Tiste Andii oppressors. I answered their prayers and liberated every one of them. This is my penance, Spi

Spi