Korlat had not hesitated with the Malazan sergeant Whiskeyjack-Spinnock had heard the tragic tale, bound up as it was in the conquest of Black Coral and the fall of the Pannion Domin. And the prolonged absence of both Korlat and her brother, Orfantal. Nevertheless, Whiskeyjack had been a man late in his years-he had lived most of a life. And who could say if the union could have lasted? When, in a terribly short span of years, Korlat would have seen her beloved de-scend into decay, his back bent, hands atremble, memory failing.
Spinnock could almost imagine the end of that, as, broken-hearted, Korlat would face a moment with a knife in her hands, contemplating the mercy of end-ing her husband’s life. Was this a thing to look forward to? Do we not possess enough burdens as it is?
‘If not for your desire I could feel in my nest,’ said the woman now lying be-neath him, ‘I would think you disinterested, Spinnock Durav. You have not been with me here, it seems, and while it’s said a man’s sword never lies, now I truly wonder if that is so.’
Blinking, he looked down into her face. A most attractive face, one that both suited the nature of her devotion and yet seemed far too innocent-too open-for this life of uninhibited indulgence. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I waited for you to… leave.’
She pushed out from under him, sat up and ran her long-fingered hands through the brush of her hair. ‘We fail in that of late,’ she said.
Ah, so that is the reason for your desperation, your avidness.
‘It will return,’ she said. ‘It must. Something:… changes, Spin.’
He stared at her unblemished back, the graceful curve of her spine, the slight rounding on her hips that he knew to be soft and cool to the touch. The angle of her shoulders bespoke either temporary satiation or a more prolonged weariness. ‘Our Lord sends his regards.’
She turned to look down at him, brows lifted in surprise. ‘He does? That would be a first.’
Spinnock frowned. Yes, it would. I hadn’t thought of that. ‘I will be leaving soon.’
Her eyes hardened. ‘Why does he treat you so? As if he possessed you, to do with as he pleases.’
‘I stand in his stead,’
‘But you are not the Son of Darkness.’
‘No, that is true.’
‘One day you are going to die in his stead.’
‘I am.’
‘And then he will need to find another fool.’
‘Yes.’
She glared down at him, then turned and swiftly rose. Black skin polished in the glow of the lanterns-nothing boylike now, a figure all curves and softened planes. Spinnock smiled. ‘I will miss you as well.’
Faint surrender as she sighed. And when she faced him again, there was noth-ing veiled in her eyes. ‘We do what we can.’
‘Yes.’
‘No, you don’t understand. The Temple-my priestesses. We try as Anoman-der Rake tries, both of us, seeking to hold on to some meaning, some purpose. He imagines it can be found in the struggles of lesser folk-of humans and all their miserable squabbles. He is wrong. We know this and so too does he. The Temple, Spin, chooses another way. The rebirth of our Gate, the return of Mother Dark, into our lives, our souls.’
‘Yes. And?’
Something crumpled in her expression. ‘We fail as he does. We know and he knows. The Son of Darkness does not send me his regards.’
Then… he said ‘priestess’.
But he didn’t mean this one. Spinnock sat up, reached down to the floor where his clothes were lying. ‘High Priestess,’ he said, ‘what can you tell me of the Cult of the Redeemer?’
‘. ‘What?’
He looked up, wondered at the alarm in her eyes. After a moment he shook his head. ‘No, I am not interested in forgiveness. Embracing the T’lan Imass killed the man-what would embracing us do to his soul?’
‘I care not to think, Spin. Oh, he was glorious in his way-for all the blood that was needlessly spilled because of it-still… glorious. If you speak not of our bur-dens, then I do not understand your question.’
‘It is newborn, this cult. What shape will it take?’
She sighed again-most extraordinary and further proof of her exhaustion. ‘As you say, very young indeed. And like all religions, its shape-it future-will be found in what happens now, in these first moments. And that is a cause for con-cern, for although pilgrims gather and give gifts and pray, no organization exists. Nothing has been formulated-no doctrine-and all religions need such things.’
He rubbed at his jaw, considering, and then nodded.