Toll the Hounds

‘Why does this interest you?’ she asked.



‘I’m not sure, but I appreciate your expertise.’ He paused, stared down at the clothes in his hands. He had forgotten something, something important-what might it be?



‘I was not wrong,’ she observed, still watching him. ‘You are not yourself, Spin. Have you finally come to resent your Lord’s demands?’



‘No,’ Perhaps, but that is not worthy of consideration-the flaw would be mine, after all. ‘1 am fine, High Priestess.’



She snorted. ‘None of us are that, Spin,’ she said as she turned away.



As his gaze dropped he saw his sword and belt lying on the floor. Of course-he had forgotten his ritual. He collected the weapon and, as the High Priestess threw on her robes, carried it over to the table and set it down. From the belt’s stiff leather pouch he removed a small sponge, a metal flask of eel oil, and a much-stained pad of sharkskin.



‘Ah,’ said the High Priestess from the doorway, ‘all is right with the world again. Later, Spin.’



‘Yes, High Priestess,’ he replied, electing to ignore her sarcasm. And the need it so poorly disguised.



Rain had rushed in from the sea, turning the paths into rivers of mud. Salind sat in the makeshift shed, legs curled up beneath her, shivering as water dripped down through holes in the roof. More people had come scratching at her door, but she had turned them all away.



She’d had enough of being a High Priestess. All her heightened sensitivities to the whims of the Redeemer were proving little more than a curse. What matter all these vague emotions she sensed from the god? She could do nothing for him.



This should not have surprised her, and she told herself that what she was feel-ing wasn’t hurt, but something else, something more impersonal. Perhaps it was her grieving for the growing list of victims as Gradithan and his sadistic mob con-tinued to terrorize the camp-so much so that some were planning to leave as soon as the road dried out. Or her failure with the Benighted. The expectations settling upon her, in the eyes of so many people, were too vast, too crushing. She could not hope to answer them all. And she was finding that, in truth, she could answer none of them.



Words were empty in the face of brutal will. They were helpless to defend whatever sanctity might be claimed, for a person’s self, for their freedom to choose how they would live, and with whom. Empathy haunted her. Compassion opened wounds which only a hardening of the soul could in the future prevent, and this she did not want-she had seen too many faces, looked into too many eyes, and recoiled from their coldness, their delight in vicious judgement.



The righteous will claim sole domain on judgement. The righteous are the first to make hands into fists, the first to shout down dissenters, the first to bully others into compliance. ‘



I live in a village of the meek, and I am the meekest of them all. There is no glory in being helpless. Nor is there hope.



Rain lashing down, a drumming roar on the slatted, angled roof, the sound of a deluge that filled her skull. That the Redeemer will embrace is neither just nor unjust. No mortal can sanction their behaviour i n the Redeemer’s name. How dare they so presume? Miserable faces matching past, peering in through the cracks in her door. And she wanted to rail at them all. You damned fools. Absolution is not enough! But they would then look upon her, moon-eyed and doleful, desperate that every question yield an answer, clinging to the notion that one suffered for a reason and knowledge of that reason would ease the suffering.



Knowledge, Salind told herself, eases nothing. It just fills spaces that might otherwise flood with despair.



Can you live without answers? All of you, ask that of yourself. Can you live without answers? Because if you cannot, then most assuredly you will invent your own answers and they will comfort you. And all those who do not share your view will by their very existence strike fear and hatred into your heart. What god blesses this?



‘I am no High Priestess,’ she croaked, as water trickled down her face.



Heavy boots splashing in the mud outside. The door was tugged back and a dark shape blotted out the pale grey light. ‘Salind.’



She blinked, trying to discern who so spoke to her with such… such compas-sion. ‘Ask me nothing,’ she said. ‘Tell me less.’



The figure moved, closing the door in a scrape of sodden grit that filled the shed with gloom once more. Pausing, standing, water dripping from a long leather cloak. ‘This will not do.’



‘Whoever you are,’ Salind said, ‘I did not invite you in. This is my home.’



‘My apologies, High Priestess.’