through her. The time was coming, she realized. She was not ready, but then, for some things, one could never be ready. The mind worked possibilities, countless variations, in a procession that did nothing but measure the time wasted in waiting. And leave one exhausted, even less prepared than would have been the case if, for example, she had spent that period in an orgy of hedonistic abandon.
Well, too late for regrets – she shook her head. Oh, it's never too late for regrets. That's what regrets are all about, you silly woman. She rose from the cushion and spent a moment shaking out the creases in her robe. Should she track down Endest Silann?
Another heavy clatter of thunder.
Of course he felt it, too, that old priest, the deathly charge growing ever tauter – he didn't need her to remind him, rushing in all hysterical foam to gush round the poor man's ankles. The absurd image made her smile, but it was a wry smile, almost bitter. She had worked hard at affecting the cool repose so essential to the role of High Priestess, a repose easily mistaken for wisdom. But how could a woman in her position truly possess wisdom, when the very goddess she served had rejected her and all that she stood for? Not wisdom, but futility. Persistent, stubborn futility. If anything, what she represented was a failure of the intellect, and an even graver one of the spirit. Her worship was founded on denial, and in the absence of a true relationship with her goddess, she – like all those who had come before her – was free to invent every detail of that mock relationship.
The lie of wisdom is best hidden in monologue. Dialogue exposes it. Most people purporting to wisdom dare not engage in dialogue, lest they reveal the paucity of their assumptions and the frailty of their convictions. Better to say nothing, to nod and look thoughtful.
Was that notion worth a treatise? Yet another self-indulgent meander for the hall of scrolls? How many thoughts could one explore? Discuss, weigh, cast and count? All indulgences. The woman looking for the next meal for her child has no time for such things. The warrior shoulder to shoulder in a line facing an enemy can only curse the so-called wisdom that led him to that place. The flurry of kings and their avaricious terrors. The brutal solidity of slights and insults, grievances and disputes. Does it come down to who will eat and who will not? Or does it come down to who will control the option? The king's privilege in deciding who eats and who starves, privilege that is the taste of power, its very essence, in fact?
Are gods and goddesses any different?
To that question, she knew Anomander Rake would but smile. He would speak of Mother Dark and the necessity of every decision she made – even down to the last one of turning away from her children. And he would not even blink when stating that his betrayal had forced upon her that final necessity.
She would walk away then, troubled, until some stretch of time later, when, in the solitude of her thoughts, she would realize that, in describing the necessities binding Mother Dark, he was also describing his very own necessities – all that had bound him to his own choices.
His betrayal of Mother Dark, she would comprehend – with deathly chill – had been necessary.
In Rake's mind, at any rate. And everything had simply followed on from there, inevitably, inexorably.
She could hear the rain lashing down on the temple's domed roof, harsh as arrows on upraised shields. The sky was locked in convulsions, a convergence of inimical elements. A narrow door to her left opened and one of her priestesses hurried in, then abruptly halted to bow. 'High Priestess.'
'Such haste,' she murmured in reply, 'so unusual for the temple historian.'
The woman glanced up, and her eyes were impressively steady. 'A question, if I may.'
'Of course.'
'High Priestess, are we now at war?'
'My sweetness – old friend – you have no idea.'
The eyes widened slightly, and then she bowed a second time. 'Will you summon Feral, High Priestess?'
'That dour creature? No, let the assassin stay in her tower. Leave her to lurk or whatever it is she does to occupy her time.'
'Spinnock Durav—'
'Is not here, I know that. I know that.' The High Priestess hesitated, and then said, 'We are now at war, as you have surmised. On countless fronts, only one of