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They had conversed as if Endest was not there, as if he was deaf to their words. The two men, Tiste and Azathanai, had begun forging something between them, and whatever it was, it was unafraid of truths.
‘My father died because he would not retreat from battle.’
‘Your father was bound in the chains of his family name.’
‘As I will be, Caladan? You give me hope.’
‘Forgive me, Rake, but strength is not always a virtue. I will raise no monument to you.’
The Son of Darkness had smiled, then. ‘At last, you say something that wholly pleases me.’
‘Yet still you are worshipped. Many by nature would hide in strength’s shadow.’
‘I will defy them.’
‘Such principles are rarely appreciated,’ Caladan said. ‘Expect excoriation. Condemnation. Those who are not your equals will claim for their own that equality, and yet will meet your eyes with expectation, with profound presumption. Every kindness you yield they will take as deserved, but such appetites are unending, and your denial is the crime they but await. Commit it and witness their subsequent vilification.’
Anomander shrugged at that, as if the expectations of others meant nothing to him, and whatever would come from his standing upon the principles he espoused, he would bear it. ‘You promised peace, Caladan. I vowed to hold you to that, and nothing we have said now has changed my mind.’
‘Yes, I said I would guide you, and I will. And in so doing, I will rely upon your strength, and hope it robust enough to bear each and every burden I place upon it. So I remind myself, and you, with the new name I give you. Will you accept it, Anomander Rake? Will you stand in strength?’
‘My father’s name proved a curse. Indeed, it proved the death of him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well, Caladan Brood, I will take this first burden.’
Of course. The Son of Darkness could do no less.
They had departed then, leaving Endest alone in the desecrated house. Alone, with the blood drying on his hands. Alone, and hollowed out by the departing of Mother Dark’s presence.
She had heard every word.
And had, once more, fled.
He shivered in the garden, despite the furs. As if he had never regained the blood lost all that time past, there at the pilgrims’ shrine, he could no longer fight off the cold. Do not look to me. Your regard ages me. Your hope weakens me. I am no prophet. My only purpose is to deliver the sanctity of blood.
Yet a battle was coming, a battle in the heart of winter, upending the proper season of war. And, along with all the other priests, and many of the priestesses, Endest would be there, ready to dress wounds and to comfort the dying. Ready to bless the day before the first weapon was drawn. But, alone among all the anointed, he would possess another task, another responsibility.
By my hands, I will let flow the sanctity of blood. And make of the place of battle another grisly shrine.
He thought of Orfantal dying, in the moment before Ribs pounced, and saw the spatters of blood on the snow around the boy.
She had begun returning now, faint and silent, and with his eyes, the goddess etched the future.
That was bad enough by itself, but something he could withstand.
If not for her growing thirst.
Do not look at me. Do not seek to know me. You’ll not like my truths.
Step by step, this pilgrim makes a path.
* * *
Bedecked in his heavy armour, Kellaras stood hesitating in the corridor when Silchas Ruin appeared. The commander stepped to one side to let the lord past. Instead, Silchas halted.
‘Kellaras, have you sought entry into the Chamber of Night?’
