The Warrior Prophet

  Silence.

  “Me too,” Sarcellus said scathingly. “Though usually when my eyes are open.”

  Had he closed his eyes? He had no recollection of it. If so, it would be a troubling lapse. Not since—

  “Idiot,” Saubon snapped, turning to the Shrial Knight. “Fool! We sit about the man’s fire and you insult him?”

  “The Knight-Commander has caused no offence,” Kellhus said. “You forget, Prince, that he’s as much priest as warrior, and we’ve asked him to share a fire with a sorcerer … It’s like asking a midwife to break bread with a leper, isn’t it?” A moment of nervous laughter, over-loud and over-brief. “No doubt,” Kellhus added, “he’s simply out of temper.”

  “No doubt,” Sarcellus repeated. A mocking smile, bottomless, like all his expressions.

  What does it want?

  “Which begs the question,” Kellhus continued, effortlessly grasping the “fortuitous turn” that had so far eluded Prince Saubon. “What brings a Shrial Knight to a sorcerer’s fire?”

  “I was sent by Gotian,” Sarcellus said, “my Grandmaster …” He glanced at Saubon, who watched stonefaced. “The Shrial Knights have sworn to be among the first who set foot upon heathen ground, and Prince Saubon proposes—”

  But Saubon interrupted, blurting, “I would speak to you of this alone, Prince Kellhus.”

  What would you have me do, Father?

  So many possibilities. Incalculable possibilities.

  Kellhus followed Saubon through the dark lanes of the ironwood grove. They paused at the edge of the cliff and looked out over the moonlit reaches of the Inûnara Highlands. Clear of the hissing leaves, the wind buffeted them. The long fall below was littered with fallen trees. Dead roots reached skyward. Some of the fallen still brandished great sockets of earth, like dusty fists raised against the survivors.

  “You do see things, don’t you?” Saubon finally said. “I mean, you dreamed of this Holy War from Atrithau.”

  Kellhus enclosed him in the circle of his senses. Heart rate. Blush reflex. The orbital muscles ringing his eyes … He fears me.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because Proyas is a stubborn fool. Because those first to plate are those first to feast!”

  The Prince of Galeoth was both daring and impatient. Though he appreciated subtlety, he preferred bold strokes in the end.

  “You wish to march immediately,” Kellhus said.

  Saubon grimaced in the dark. “I would be in Gedea now,” he snapped, “if it weren’t for you!”

  He spoke of the recent Council, where Kellhus’s reinterpretation of Ruöm’s destruction had amputated his arguments. But his resentment, Kellhus could see, was hollow. Though ruthless and mercenary, Coithus Saubon was not petty.

  “Then why come to me now?”

  “Because what you said … about the God burning our ships … It had the ring of truth.”

  He was a watcher of men, Kellhus realized, someone who continually measured. His whole life he’d thought himself a shrewd judge of character, prided himself on his honesty, his ability to punish flattery and reward criticism. But with Kellhus … He had no yardstick, no carpenter’s string. He’s told himself I’m a seer of some kind. But he fears I’m more …

  “And that’s what you seek? The truth?”

  Though mercenary, Saubon did possess a kind of practical piety. For him faith was a game—a very serious game. Where other men begged and called it “prayer,” he negotiated, haggled. By coming here, he thought he was giving the Gods their due …

  He’s terrified of making a mistake. The Whore has given him but one chance.

  “I need to know what you see!” the man cried. “I’ve fought many campaigns—all of them for my wretched father! I’m no fool when it comes to the field of war. I don’t think I’d march into a Fanim tra—”

  “But recall what Cnaiür said at Council,” Kellhus interrupted. “The Fanim fight from horseback. They’d bring the trap to you. And remember the Cishaur—”

  “Pfah! My nephew scouts Gedea as we speak, sends me messages daily. There’s no Fanim host lurking in the shadow of these mountains. These skirmishers that Proyas chases are meant to fool us, delay us while the heathen gathers his might. Skauras is canny enough to know when he’s overmatched. He’s retreated to Shigek, barricaded himself in his cities on the Sempis, where he awaits the Padirajah and the Grandees of Kian. He’s ceded Gedea to whoever has the courage to seize it!”

  The Galeoth Prince clearly believed what he said, but could he be believed? His argument seemed sober enough. And Proyas himself had expressed nothing but respect for the man’s martial acumen. Saubon had even fought Ikurei Conphas to a standstill just a few years previous …

  Cataracts of possibility. There was opportunity here … And perhaps Sarcellus need not be confronted to be destroyed. But still.

  I know so little of war. Too little …

  “So you hope.” Kellhus said. “Skauras could—”

  “So I know!”

  “Then what does it matter, whether I sanction you or not? Truth is truth, regardless of who speaks it …”

  Desperation. “I ask only for your counsel, for what you see … Nothing more.”

  Slackness about the eyes. Shortness of breath. Deadened timbre. Another lie.

  “But I see many things …” Kellhus said.

  “Then tell me!”

  Kellhus shook his head. “Only rarely do I glimpse the future. The hearts of men … that is what they …” He paused, glanced nervously down the sheer drop, to the bleach-bone trees scattered and broken below. “That is what I’m moved to see.”

  Saubon had become guarded. “Then tell me … What do you see in my heart?”

  Expose him. Strip him of every lie, every pretense. When the shame passes …

  Kellhus held the man’s eyes for a forlorn instant.

  … he will think it proper to stand naked before me.

  “A man and a child,” Kellhus said, weaving deeper harmonics into his voice, transforming it into something palpable. “I see a man and a child … The man is harrowed by the distance between the trappings of power and the impotence of his birthright. He would force what fate has denied him, and so, day by day lives in the midst of what he does not possess. Avarice, Saubon … Not for gold, but for witness. Greed for the testimony of men—for them to look and say ‘Here, here is a King by his own hand!’”

  Kellhus stared into the giddy void at his feet, his eyes glassy with the tumult of inner mysteries …

  Saubon watched with horror. “And the child? You said there was a child!”

  “Cringes still beneath a father’s hand. Awakens in the night and cries out, not for witness, but to be known … No one knows him. No one loves.”

  Kellhus turned to him, his eyes shining with insight and unearthly compassion. “I could go on …”

  “No-no,” Saubon stammered, as though waking from a trance. “Cease. That’s enough …”

  But what was enough? Saubon yearned for pretexts; what would he give in return? When the variables were so many, everything was risk. Everything.

  What if I choose wrong, Father?

  “Did you hear that?” Kellhus cried, turning to Saubon in sudden terror.

  The Galeoth Prince jumped back from the cliff’s edge. “Hear what?”

  Truth begat truth, even when it was a lie.

  Kellhus swayed, staggered. Saubon leapt forward, pulled him from the long fall.

  “March,” Kellhus gasped, close enough to kiss. “The Whore will be kind to you … But you must make certain the Shrial Knights are …” He opened his eyes in stunned wonder—as though to say, This couldn’t be their message!

  Some destinations couldn’t be grasped in advance. Some paths had to be walked to be known. Risked.

  “You must make certain the Shrial Knights are punished.”

  With Kellhus and Saubon gone, Esmenet sat silently, staring into the fire, studying the mosaic image of the Latt
er Prophet reaching out beneath their feet. She pulled her toes from the circle of a haloed hand. It seemed sacrilege that they should trod upon him …

  But then what did she care? She was damned. Never had that seemed more obvious than now.

  Sarcellus here!

  Affliction upon affliction. Why did the Gods hate her so? Why were they so cruel?

  Resplendent in his silvered mail and white surcoat, Sarcellus chatted amiably with Serwë about Kellhus, asking where he came from, how they first met, and so on. Serwë basked in his attention; it was plain from her answers that she more than adored the Prince of Atrithau. She spoke as though she didn’t exist outside her bond to him. Achamian watched, though for some reason it seemed he didn’t listen.

  Oh, Akka … Why do I know I’m going to lose you?

  Not fear, know. Such was the cruelty of this world!

  Murmuring excuses, Esmenet stood, then with slow, measured steps, fled from the fire.

  Enfolded by darkness, she stopped, plopped down on the ruined stump of a pillar. The sounds of Saubon’s men permeated the night: the rhythmic thwack of axes, deep-throated shouts, ribald laughter. Beneath the dark trees, warhorses snorted, stamped the earth.

  What have I done? What if Akka finds out?

  Looking back the way she’d come, she was shocked to discover she could still see Achamian, dusty orange before the fire. She smiled at the hapless look of him, at the five white streaks of his beard. He seemed to be talking to Serwë …

  Where had Sarcellus gone?

  “It must be difficult being a woman in such a place,” a voice called from behind her.

  Esmenet jumped to her feet and whirled, her heart racing both with dismay and alarm. She saw Sarcellus strolling toward her. Of course …

  “So many pigs,” he continued, “and only one trough.”

  Esmenet swallowed, stood rigid. She made no reply.

  “I’ve seen you before too,” he said, playing games with their pretense about the fire. “Haven’t I?” He waved a mocking finger.

  Deep breath. “No. I’m sure you haven’t.”

  “But yes … Yes! You’re a … harlot.” He smiled winningly. “A whore.”

  Esmenet glanced around. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Sorcerers and whores … It seems oddly appropriate, I suppose. With so many men licking your crotch, I imagine it serves to keep one with a magic tongue.”

  She struck him, or tried to. Somehow he caught her hand.

  “Sarcellus,” she whispered. “Sarcellus, please …”

  She felt a fingertip trace an impossible line along her inner thigh.

  “Like I said,” he muttered in a tone her body recognized. “One trough.”

  She glanced back toward the fire, saw Achamian peering after her with a frown. Of course he could see only blackness, such was the treachery of fire, which illuminated small circles by darkening the entire world. But what Achamian could or could not see did not matter.

  “No, Sarcellus,” she hissed. “Not …”

  … here

  “… while I live. Do you understand?”

  She could feel the heat of him.

  No-no-no-no …

  A different, more resonant voice called out. “Is there a problem?” Whirling, she saw Prince Kellhus stride from the shadows of the nearby grove.

  “N-no. Nothing,” Esmenet gasped, stunned to find her arm free. “Lord Sarcellus startled me, nothing more.”

  “She spooks easily,” Sarcellus said. “But then most women do.”

  “You think so?” Kellhus replied, approaching until even Sarcellus had to look up. Kellhus stared at the man, his manner mild, even bemused, but there was an implacable constancy to his look that made Esmenet’s heart race, that urged her limbs to run. Had he been listening? Had he heard?

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Sarcellus said in an offhand manner. “Most men spook easy too.”

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Something clawed at Esmenet to fill it, but she could find no breath to speak.

  “I’ll leave you two, then,” Sarcellus declared. With a shallow bow, he turned and strode back to the fire.

  Alone with Kellhus, Esmenet sighed in relief. The hands that had throttled her heart but moments before had vanished. She looked up to Kellhus, glimpsed the Nail of Heaven over his left shoulder. He seemed an apparition of gold and shadow. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You loved him, didn’t you?”

  Her ears burned. For some reason, saying no never occurred to her. One just didn’t lie to Prince Anasûrimbor Kellhus. Instead, she said, “Please don’t tell Akka.”

  Kellhus smiled, though his eyes seemed profoundly sad. He reached out, as though to touch her cheek, then dropped his hand.

  “Come,” he said. “Night waxes.”

  Clutching hands with the palm-to-palm urgency of young lovers, Esmenet and Achamian searched through the scrub and grasses for good sleeping ground. They found a flat area near the edge of the grove, not far from the cliff, and rolled out their mats. They laid down, groaning and puffing like an old man and woman. The ironwood nearest them had died some time ago, and it twined across the sky above them, like a thing of alabaster. Through smooth-forking branches, Esmenet studied the constellations, oppressed by the thought of Sarcellus and the angry memory of Achamian’s earlier words …

  There’s no hiding from the end of the world!

  How could she be such a fool? A harlot who would place herself upon his scales? He was a Mandate Schoolman. Every night he lost loves greater than she could imagine, let alone be. She’d heard his cries. The frantic babbling in unknown tongues. The eyes lost in ancient hallucinations.

  She knew this! How many times had she held him in the humid dark?

  Achamian loved her, sure, but Seswatha loved the dead.

  “Did I ever tell you,” she said, flinching from these thoughts, “that my mother read the stars?”

  “Dangerous,” he replied, “especially in the Nansurium. Didn’t she know the penalties?”

  The prohibitions against astrology were as severe as those against witchcraft. The future was too valuable to be shared with caste-menials. “Better to be a whore, Esmi,” her mother would say. “Stones are nothing more than far-flung fists. Better to be beaten than to be burned …”

  How old had she been? Eleven?

  “She knew, which was why she refused to teach me …”

  “She was wise.”

  Meditative silence. Esmenet struggled with an unaccountable anger.

  “Do you think they speak our future, Akka? The stars?”

  A momentary pause. “No.”

  “Why?”

  “The Nonmen believe the sky is endlessly empty, an infinite void …”

  “Empty? How could that be?”

  “Even more, they think the stars are faraway suns.”

  Esmenet wanted to laugh, but then, as though suddenly seeing through her reflection across waters, she saw the plate of heaven dissolve into impossible depths, emptiness heaped upon emptiness, hollow upon hollow, with stars—no suns!—hanging like points of dust in a shaft of light. She caught her breath. Somehow the sky had become a vast, yawning pit. Without thinking, she clenched the grasses, as though she stood upon a ledge rather than lay across the ground.

  “How could they believe such a thing?” she asked. “The sun moves in circles about the world. The stars move in circles about the Nail.” The thought struck her that the Nail of Heaven itself might be another world, one with a thousand thousand suns. Such a sky that would be!

  Achamian shrugged. “Supposedly that’s what the Inchoroi told them. That they sailed here from stars that were suns.”

  “And you believe them, the Nonmen? That’s why you don’t think the stars weave our fate?”

  “I believe them.”

  “But you still believe the future is written …” The air became hard between them, the surrounding grasses as sharp as wire.
“You believe Kellhus is the Harbinger.”

  She realized she’d been speaking of Kellhus all along. Prince Kellhus.

  A heartbeat of silence. The sound of laughter over ruined walls—Kellhus and Serwë.

  “Yes,” Achamian said.

  Esmenet held her breath. “What if he’s more? More than the Harbinger …”

  Achamian rolled onto his side, propped his head on his palm. For the first time, Esmenet saw the tears coursing down his cheeks. He’d been crying all along, she realized. All along.

  He suffers … More than I can ever know.

  “You understand,” he said. “You see why he torments me, don’t you?”

  Her skin recalled the path of Sarcellus’s finger along her inner thigh. She shuddered, thought she heard Serwë moaning in the dark, gasping …

  “I asked you,” Kellhus had said, “to tell me what it was like.”

  She no longer wanted to run.

  “The Mandate cannot know, Akka … We must bear this burden alone.”

  Achamian pursed trembling lips. Swallowed. “We?”

  Esmenet looked back to the stars. One more language she could not read.

  “We.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE PLAINS OF MENGEDDA

  Why must I conquer, you ask? War makes clear. Life or Death. Freedom or Bondage. War strikes the sediment from the water of life.

  —TRIAMIS I, JOURNALS AND DIALOGUES

  Early Summer, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, near the Plains of Mengedda

  Cnaiür had known something was amiss long before sighting the fields of trampled pasture and dead firepits: too little smoke on the horizon, and too few scavenging birds in the sky. When he mentioned this to Proyas, the Prince had blanched, as though he’d confirmed a festering concern. When they crested the last of the hills and saw that only the Conriyans and the Nansur remained beneath Asgilioch’s walls, Proyas had fallen into an apoplectic fury, fairly shrieking curses as he whipped his horse down the slopes.