The Warrior Prophet

  Then the pitted knives, coins, shattered helms, and bones started to appear, as though slowly vomited from the earth. At first here and there, found jutting from the turf in the morning, and in places men insisted they couldn’t have been missed. Then more frequently. After stubbing his toe, one man allegedly found the skeleton of a child beneath the rushes of his tent.

  Kellhus himself had dreamt nothing, but he’d seen the bones. According to Gotian, who’d explained the legends regarding the Battleplain in private council two days earlier, this ground had imbibed too much blood over the millennia, and now, like over-salted water, had to discharge the old to accommodate the new. The Battleplain was cursed, he said, but they needn’t fear for their souls so long as they remained resolute in their faith. The curse was old and well understood. Proyas and Gothyelk, neither of whom suffered dreams, were loath to leave, both because the couriers they’d sent to Conphas and Chepheramunni had named Mengedda as their point of rendezvous, and because the streams running through the ruined city afforded the only expedient supply of water within a three-day march. Saubon also insisted they stay, though for reasons, Kellhus knew, entirely his own. Saubon did dream. Only Skaiyelt had demanded they leave.

  Somehow, the very ground of battle had become their foe. Such contests, Xinemus had remarked one night about their fire, belonged to philosophers and priests, not warriors and harlots.

  Such contests, Kellhus had thought, simply should not be …

  Ever since learning the desperate details of the Inrithi triumph, Kellhus had found himself beset with questions, quandaries, and enigmas.

  Fate had been kind to Coithus Saubon, but only because the Galeoth Prince had dared punish the Shrial Knights. By all accounts, Gotian’s catastrophic charge against the Cishaurim had saved the Earls and Thanes of the Middle-North. Events, in other words, had unfolded precisely as Kellhus had predicted. Precisely.

  But the problem was that he hadn’t predicted anything. He’d merely said what he’d needed to say to maximize the probabilities of securing Saubon and destroying Sarcellus. He’d taken a risk.

  It simply had to be coincidence. At least this was what he’d told himself—at first. Fate was but one more world-born subterfuge, another lie men used to give meaning to their abject helplessness. That was why they thought the future a Whore, something who favoured no man over another. Something heartbreakingly indifferent.

  What came before determined what came after … This was the basis of the Probability Trance. This was the principle that made mastering circumstance, be it with word or sword, possible. This was what made him Dûnyain.

  One of the Conditioned.

  Then the earth began spitting up bones. Wasn’t this proof that the ground answered to the tribulations of men, that it was not indifferent? And if earth—earth!—wasn’t indifferent, then what of the future? Could what came after actually determine what came before? What if the line running between past and future was neither singular nor straight, but multiple and bent, capable of looping in ways that contradicted the Law of Before and After?

  Could he be the Harbinger, as Achamian insisted?

  Is this why you’ve summoned me, Father? To save these children?

  But these were what he called primary questions. There were so many more immediate mysteries to be interrogated, so many more tangible threats. Such questions either belonged to philosophers and priests, as Xinemus had said, or to Anasûrimbor Moënghus.

  Why haven’t you contacted me, Father?

  The bonfire waxed brighter, consuming a small library of scrolls the slaves had hauled from the darkness. Even though Kellhus sat apart, he could feel his position among the caste-nobles arrayed before him. It was like a palpable thing, as though he were a fisherman manning far-flung nets. Every glance, every watchful stare, was noted, categorized, and retained. Every face was deciphered.

  A knowing look from a figure sitting among Proyas’s caste-nobles … Palatine Gaidekki.

  He’s discussed me at length with his peers, regards me as a puzzle, and thinks himself pessimistic as to the solution. But part of him wonders, even yearns.

  A look from one of the Tydonni. A momentary meeting of eyes … Earl Cerjulla.

  He’s heard the rumours, but remains too proud of his own battlefield deeds to concede anything to fate. He suffers the nightmares …

  A passing glance from behind Ikurei Conphas … General Martemus.

  He’s heard much about me, but is too preoccupied to truly care.

  From among the Thunyeri, a fiery-haired warrior, searching for someone among the crowd … Earl Goken.

  He’s heard almost nothing of me. Too few Thunyeri speak different tongues.

  A contemptuous glare from among the Conriyans … Palatine Ingiaban.

  He discusses me with Gaidekki, argues that I’m a fraud. My relationship to Cnaiür is what interests him. He too has stopped sleeping.

  A steady, fixed look from among Gotian’s diminished retinue …

  Sarcellus.

  One of what seemed a growing number of inscrutable faces. Skin-spies, Achamian had called them.

  Why did he stare? Because of the rumours, like the others? Because of the horrific toll his words had exacted on the Shrial Knights? Gotian, Kellhus knew, struggled not to hate him …

  Or did he know that Kellhus could see him and had tried to kill him?

  Kellhus matched the thing’s unblinking gaze. Since his first encounter with Skeaös on the Andiamine Heights, he’d refined his understanding of their peculiar physiognomy. Where others saw blemished or beautiful faces, he saw eyes peering through clutched fingers. So far, he’d identified eleven of the creatures masquerading as various powerful personages, and he had no doubt there were more …

  He nodded amiably, but Sarcellus simply continued watching, expressionless, as though unaware or unconcerned that what he stared at was staring back …

  Something, Kellhus thought. They suspect something.

  There was a small commotion in his periphery, and turning, Kellhus saw Earl Athjeäri pressing his way through the crowded spectators, climbing toward him. Kellhus bowed his head appropriately as the young caste-noble approached. The man reciprocated, though his declension fell slightly short.

  “Afterward,” Athjeäri said. “I need you to come with me afterward.”

  “Prince Saubon.”

  The striking, chestnut-haired man worked his jaw. Athjeäri was someone, Kellhus knew, who understood neither melancholy nor indecision, which was partly why he thought this errand demeaning. As much as he admired his uncle, he thought Saubon was making too much of this impoverished prince from Atrithau. Far too much.

  So much pride.

  “My uncle wants to meet,” the Earl said, as though explaining a lapse. Without further word, he began pressing his way back to the amphitheatre. Kellhus looked out over the crowds below to the Great Names. He glimpsed Saubon nervously looking away.

  His anguish grows. His fear deepens. For six nights now, the Galeoth Prince had assiduously avoided him, even in those councils where they shared seats about the same fire. Something had happened on the field, something more grievous than losing kinsmen or sending the Shrial Knights to their doom.

  An opportunity.

  Sarcellus, Kellhus noticed, had left his seat on the tiers, and now stood with a small party of Shrial Priests preparing to assist Gotian in the inaugural rites. The general rumble of voices trailed.

  The Grandmaster began with a purificatory prayer Kellhus recognized from The Tractate. Then he spoke for some time of Inri Sejenus, the Latter Prophet, and what it meant for men to be Inrithi. “Whosoever repents the darkness in their heart,” he quoted from the Book of Scholars, “let him raise high the Tusk and follow.” To be Inrithi, he reminded them, was to be a follower of Inri Sejenus. And who followed more faithfully than those who walked in his Holy Steps?

  “Shimeh,” he said in a clear, far-travelling voice. “Shimeh is near, very near, for we have travelled fa
rther in one day with our swords than we have in two years with our feet …”

  “Or our tongues!” some wit cried out.

  Warm laughter.

  “Four nights ago,” Gotian declared, “I sent a scroll to Maithanet, our Most Holy Shriah, Exalted Father of our Holy War.” He paused, and all was silence save the cracking of the bonfire. He still wore bandages about both hands, which had been burned by dragging the fallen through fiery grasses.

  “Upon that scroll,” he continued, “I wrote but one word—one word!—for my fingers still bled.”

  Sporadic shouts broke from the masses. The Charge of the Shrial Knights had already become legend.

  “Triumph!” he cried.

  “Triumph!”

  The Men of the Tusk exploded in exultation, howling and wailing, some even weeping. Shadowy beneath the stars, the mounds and debris of surrounding Mengedda shivered.

  But Kellhus remained silent. He glanced at Sarcellus, who had his back partially turned toward him, and noticed … discrepancies. Smiling, resplendent in firelight and gold and white, Gotian waved for the masses to settle, then called on them to join him in the Temple Prayer.

  Sweet God of Gods,

  who walk among us,

  innumerable are your holy names …

  Words uttered through a thousand human throats. The air thrummed with an impossible resonance. The ground itself spoke, or so it seemed … But Kellhus saw only Sarcellus—saw only differences. His stance, his height and build, even the lustre of his black hair. All imperceptibly different.

  A replacement.

  The original copy had been killed, Kellhus realized, just as he’d hoped. The position of Sarcellus, however, had not. His death had gone unwitnessed, and they’d simply replaced him.

  Strange that a man could be a position.

  for your name is Truth,

  which endures and endures,

  for ever and ever.

  After completing the purificatory rites, Gotian and Sarcellus withdrew. Stiff in their ornamental hauberks, the Gilgallic Priests then rose to declare the Battle-Celebrant, the man whom dread War had chosen as his vessel on the field five days previous. The masses fell silent in anticipation. The selection of the Battle-Celebrant, Xinemus had complained to Kellhus earlier that day, was the object of innumerable wagers, as though it were a lottery rather than a divine determination. An older man, his square-cut beard as white as hoarfrost, stepped to the forefront of the others: Cumor, the High Cultist of Gilgaöl. But before he could begin, Prince Skaiyelt leapt to his feet and cried, “Weät firlik peor kaflang dau hara mausrot!” He whirled from the Great and Lesser Names to those massed about Kellhus, his long blond hair and beard spilling from shoulder to shoulder. “Weät dau hara mût keflinga! Keflinga!”

  Cumor sputtered something indignant and unintelligible, while everyone else turned to Skaiyelt’s Thunyeri for explanation. His translators, it seemed, were nowhere to be found.

  “He says,” one of Gothyelk’s men finally shouted in Sheyic from the higher tiers, “that we must first discuss leaving this place. That we must flee.”

  The humid air suddenly buzzed with competing shouts, some accusatory, others crying out assent. Skaiyelt’s monstrous groom, Yalgrota, jumped to his feet and began beating his chest and roaring threats. The shrunken Sranc heads about his waist danced like tassels. Inexplicably, Skaiyelt began kicking at the ground. He crouched with his knife, then stood, raising something against the bonfire’s glare. Hundreds gasped.

  He held a skull, half choked with dirt, half crushed by some ancient blow.

  “Weät,” he said slowly, “dau hara mût keflinga.”

  The dead surfacing like the drowned … How, Kellhus thought, could this be possible?

  But he needed to stay focused on practical mysteries—not those pertaining to the ground.

  Skaiyelt tossed the skull into the bonfire, glared at his fellow Great Names. The debate continued, and one by one they acquiesced, though Chepheramunni at first refused to credit the story. Even the Exalt-General conceded without complaint. Over the course of the debate, some looks wandered toward Kellhus, but no one solicited his opinion. After a short time, Proyas announced that the Holy War would leave Mengedda and her cursed plains come morning.

  The Men of the Tusk rumbled in wonder and relief.

  Attention was once again yielded to aging Cumor, who, either because he was flustered or dreaded further interruptions, dispensed with the Gilgallic rites altogether and came directly to stand over Saubon. The other priests seemed more than a little disconcerted.

  “Kneel,” the old man called out in a quavering voice.

  Saubon did as he was told, but not before sputtering, “Gotian! He led the charge!”

  “It is you, Coithus Saubon,” Cumor replied, his tone so soft that few, Kellhus imagined, could hear him. “You … Many saw it. Many saw him, the Shield-Breaker, glorious Gilgaöl … He looked through your eyes! Fought with your limbs!”

  “No …”

  Cumor smiled, then withdrew a circlet woven of thorns and olive sprigs from his voluminous right sleeve. Save for the odd cough, the gathered Inrithi fell absolutely silent. With an old man’s unsteady gentleness, he placed the circlet upon Saubon’s head. Then stepping back, the High Cultist of Gilgaöl cried, “Rise, Coithus Saubon, Prince of Galeoth … Battle-Celebrant!”

  Once again the assembly thundered in exultation. Saubon pressed himself to his feet, but slowly, like a man wearied by a near heartbreaking run. For a moment he looked about in disbelief, then without warning, he turned to Kellhus, his cheeks shining with tears in the firelight. His clean-shaven face still bore cuts and bruises from five days previous.

  Why? his anguished look said. I don’t deserve this …

  Kellhus smiled sadly, and bowed to the precise degree jnan demanded from all men in the presence of a Battle-Celebrant. He’d more than mastered their brute customs by now; he’d learned the subtle flourishes that transformed the seemly into the august. He knew their every cue.

  The roaring redoubled. They’d all witnessed their exchanged look; they’d all heard the story of Saubon’s pilgrimage to Kellhus at the ruined shrine.

  It happens, Father. It happens.

  But the thunderous cheering suddenly faltered, trailed into the rumble of questioning voices. Kellhus saw Ikurei Conphas standing before the bonfire not far from Saubon, his shouts only now becoming audible.

  “—fools!” he railed. “Rank idiots! You’d honour this man? You’d acclaim acts that nearly doomed the entire Holy War?”

  A tide of jeers and taunts swelled through the amphitheatre.

  “Coithus Saubon, Battle-Celebrant,” Conphas cried in derision, and somehow managed to silence the rumble. “Fool-Celebrant, I say! The man who nearly saw all of you killed on these cursed fields! And trust me, this is the one place where you don’t want to die …”

  Saubon simply watched him, dumbstruck.

  “You know what I mean,” the Exalt-General said to him directly. “You know what you did was errant folly.” Reflections of the bonfire curled like oil across his golden breastplate.

  The masses had fallen utterly silent. He had no choice, Kellhus knew, but to intervene.

  Conphas is too clever to—

  “The craven see folly everywhere,” a powerful voice boomed from the lower tiers. “All daring is rash in their eyes, because they would call their cowardice ‘prudence.’” Cnaiür had stood from his place next to Xinemus.

  Months had passed, and still the Scylvendi’s penetration surprised him. Cnaiür saw the danger, Kellhus realized, knew that Saubon would be useless if he were discredited.

  Conphas laughed. “So I’m a coward, am I, Scylvendi?” His right hand happened upon the pommel of his sword.

  “In a manner,” Cnaiür said. He wore black breeches and a grey thigh-length vest—plunder from the Kianene camp—that left both his chest and banded arms bare. Firelight shimmered across the vest’s silk embroidery, flash
ed from his pale eyes. As always, the plainsman emanated a feral intensity that made others, Kellhus noted, stiffen in inarticulate alarm. Everything about him looked hard, like sinew one had to saw rather than slice.

  “Since defeating the People,” the Scylvendi continued, “much glory has been heaped upon your name. Because of this, you begrudge others that same glory. The valour and wisdom of Coithus Saubon have defeated Skauras—no mean thing, if what you said at your Emperor’s knee was to be believed. But since this glory is not yours, you think it false. You call it foolishness, blind lu—”

  “It was blind luck!” Conphas cried. “The Gods favour the drunk and the soft-of-head … That’s the only lesson we’ve learned.”

  “I cannot speak to what your gods favour,” Cnaiür replied. “But you have learned much, very much. You have learned the Fanim cannot withstand a determined charge by Inrithi knights, nor can they break a determined defence by Inrithi footmen. You have learned the strengths and shortcomings of their tactics and their weapons against a heavily armoured foe. You have witnessed the limits of their patience. And you have taught as well—a very important lesson. You have taught them to fear. Even now, in the hills, they run like jackals before the wolf.”

  Cheers spread through the crowds, gradually growing into another deafening roar.

  Stupefied, Conphas stared at the Scylvendi, his fingers kneading his pommel. He’d been roundly defeated. And so swiftly …

  “Time for another scar on your arms!” someone cried, and laughter boomed through the amphitheatre. Cnaiür graced the assembled Inrithi with a rare fierce grin.

  Even from this distance, Kellhus knew the Exalt-General felt neither shame nor embarrassment: the man smiled as though a crowd of lepers had just insulted his beauty. For Conphas, the derision of thousands meant as little as the derision of one. The game was all that mattered.