Now, accompanied by a small band of Kidruhil, they waited at the designated rendezvous, an overgrown cairn located near the heart of what had been Imbeyan’s hunting preserve, several miles to the south and east of Joktha. The site had been Conphas’s choice—as it should be, since he inevitably would occupy the heights of the drama to follow.
A series of titanic gusts broke and fumbled across the earth. The ragged evergreens answered, bending back like girls with their faces to the wind. Winter detritus flew, caught up in the sweeping of invisible skirts. Distant treetops shook, as though concealing some monstrous feud beneath their bowers. Everything, it seemed, had conspired to create the sensation of depth. So often the world seemed flat to Conphas, like something painted across his eyes. Not so today, he mused. Today would be deep.
Sompas’s chestnut snorted, shook its head and mane to shoo a wasp. The General cursed in the petulant way of those who keep score with animals. Suddenly Conphas found himself mourning the loss of Martemus. Sompas was useful—even now, his pickets combed the countryside, searching for the Scylvendi’s spies—but his value lay more in his availability than his quality. He was an able tool, not a foil as Martemus had been. And all great men required foils.
Especially on occasions such as this.
If only he could forget the accursed Scylvendi! What was it about the man? Even now, in some small corner of his soul, a beacon fire burned at the ready in case of his return. It was as though the barbarian had somehow stained him with the force of his presence, and now it clung, like an odour that must be scrubbed rather than rinsed away. Never had any man possessed such an effect on him.
Perhaps this, Conphas mused, was what sin felt like for the faithful. The intimation of something greater watching. The sense of disapproval, at once immense and ineffable, as near as fog and yet as distant as the world’s rim. It was as though anger itself possessed eyes.
Perhaps faith was a kind of stain as well…a kind of odour.
He laughed aloud, not caring what Sompas or the others thought. His old self had returned, and he liked his old self … very much.
“Exalt-General?” Sompas said.
Biaxi fool. Always so desperate to be on the inside of things.
“They come,” Conphas said, nodding to the distance.
A band of riders, perhaps twenty-strong, had cleared the bowers of a cypress stand and were filing down the opposing slope, picking their way between the hummocks that jutted from the pasture like the moles on a dog’s chin. Affecting boredom, Conphas stole a glance at his small retinue, saw the first brows furrow in confusion and concern. He almost cackled aloud. What was he up to, their godlike Exalt-General?
This day had been planned long in advance. The Prince of Atrithau had wasted no time securing his authority over the Holy War. Whatever spleen the Orthodox yet possessed had been gutted by his victory over the Padirajah. Conphas still blinked in wonder thinking of that day. That such … certainty could take root in such desperation. Even his own men had fought with the fury of the possessed.
Conphas had played his role and, given the narrow margins involved, had no doubt been instrumental to the Holy War’s success. But any fool could see his days as a Man of the Tusk were numbered. So he had taken … measures. Arranging this assignation through Cironji intermediaries was one of them. So too was secreting a company of Kidruhil in the wilds of Enathpaneah. Of course, he had told no one of his intentions, least of all Sompas. The long view could not be trusted to those without vision. They must first blunder across the frontier.
“Who?” Sompas asked of no one in particular. The others likewise peered, and though they sat stiff and still in their saddles, Conphas knew they clawed their insides in anticipation, like children hankering for honeycakes. The fact that the approaching riders were dressed as Fanim meant nothing. With the exception of the Nansur, all Men of the Tusk dressed like Fanim. Conphas could not help but wonder what Martemus would think. Life had seemed more careful when reflected in his shrewd eyes. Less reckless.
“Exalt-General!” Sompas abruptly cried. He made for his sword—
“Hold!” Conphas barked. “Draw no weapons!”
“But they’re Kianene!” the General exclaimed.
Fucking Biaxi. Small wonder they never managed to seize the Mantle.
Conphas spurred forward, wheeling his mount about to face them. “Who but the wicked,” he cried, “would cast out the righteous?”
To a man they stared at him, stupefied. They were all Orthodox, which meant they despised the Prince of Atrithau as much as he. But their resolve was born of mundane earth, not heaven. Conphas knew he could never ask too much of them—the bag of possible acts had no bottom when it came to men—but he could always ask too soon. These men would murder their mothers for him …
It was simply a matter of timing.
Conphas smiled as one who had shared their many straits. He shook his head as if to say, So here we find ourselves again.
“I’ve marched you to the frontiers of Galeoth. I’ve led you into the heart of the dreaded Scylvendi Steppe. I’ve taken you to the very threshold of Kian’s destruction! Kian. How many battles have we fought together? Lassentas. Doerna. Kiyuth. Mengedda. Anwurat. Tertae … How many victories?”
He shrugged, as though at a loss how to make the obvious self-evident.
“And now look at us … Look at us! Imprisoned. The lands of our fathers stolen. The Holy War in the grip of a False Prophet. Inri Sejenus forgotten! You know as well as I the demands of War. The time has come for you to decide whether you’re the equal of those demands.”
Another gust wheeled across the slope, whisking through grasses, buffeting branches, forcing him to squint against the grit. “Your hearts, my brothers. Ask them.”
It all came to their hearts, in the end. Even though Conphas had no clue what “heart,” used in this sense, actually meant, he did know that it could be trusted, like any other well-trained dog. He smiled inwardly, realizing the issue had been decided long before he had spoken. They were already committed. The genius of most men lay in finding reasons after their actions. The heart was ever self-serving, especially when the beliefs served involved sacrifice. This was why the great general always sought consent in the instant of commission. Momentum did the rest.
Timing.
“You are the Lion,” Sompas said.
Then, as though baring their necks to the executioner, the others lowered their faces and held them there, chins to the red-lacquered breastplates they wore over their chain hauberks. They let a long moment pass. A jnanic sign of deep and reverent respect.
Even worship.
Grinning, Conphas wheeled his mount to the sound of approaching horsemen. There was a wild, unbridled air about the way they reined to a halt before him, as though the merest of whims had stayed their charge. Despite the many colours of their khalats and the glint of their corselets, they seemed shadowy and threatening. It was more than the leather of their dark desert skin, or the oiled lustre of their long-braided goatees. There was a haggard ferocity to their look. Their eyes gleamed with the manic resolve of put-upon peoples.
A speechless moment passed, filled with the grunts and snorts of warhorses. Conphas almost laughed at the thought of his uncle confronting their ancestral foe in such a way. A mole bargaining with falcons …
As opposed to a lion.
“Fanayal ab Kascamandri,” he said in a clear and resonant voice. “Padirajah.”
The young man he addressed bowed his head far too low; Fanayal outranked all save Xerius or Maithanet now.
“Ikurei Conphas,” the Padirajah of Kian said, his voice rich with lilting Kianene cadences. There was kohl about his dark eyes. “Emperor.”
When the rain stopped, he left her slumbering in their bed. Serwë, her face as perfect as it was false.
Cnaiür wandered from his apartments onto the terrace, breathed deep the cavernous after-storm air. Joktha and her narrow ways extended into the distance, subdued
beneath the clearing sky. It resembled a vast amphitheatre, its tiers smashed and rutted. He stared for a time at Conphas’s compound on the far and opposite slopes, pondered it as though it were an uncharted shore.
A burst of flapping startled him. Shadows flitted across the surrounding pools of water. Fleeing, sand-doves swept above, winging across the crescent moon then jerking downward as though bound by strings to the terrace. Trilling in alarm, they vanished below.
A voice rasped from his periphery, “You perplex me, Scylvendi.”
Demons, Cnaiür now knew, had many guises. They were everywhere, mauling the world with their anarchic appetites, outraging with their impersonations. Birds. Lovers. Slaves …
And most of all, him.
“Kill the Ikurei,” the voice keened, “and the dogs will be loosed. Why do you stay your hand?”
He turned to the abomination. To the bird.
Certain peoples, Cnaiür knew, revered and reviled certain birds. The Nansur had their holy peacocks, the Cepalorans their prairie grouses. All Inrithi butchered kites and falcons in their rites of war. For the Scylvendi, however, birds were nothing more than signs of weather, wolves, and seasons. That, and a food of last resort.
So what was this thing? He had struck bargains with it. Exchanged promises.
“You speak to me of killing,” Cnaiür said evenly, “when the Dûnyain’s death should be your only concern.”
The little face scowled. “The Ikurei plots the Holy War’s destruction.”
Cnaiür spat, turned to the plate of the Meneanor, to the great finger of moonlight that divided its black back. “And the Dûnyain?”
“We need him to find the other … Moënghus. He’s the greater threat.”
“Fool!” Cnaiür exclaimed.
“I eclipse you, mortal!” it replied with bird-vehemence. “I am a son of a more violent race. You cannot conceive the compass of my life!”
Cnaiür turned his profile to it, glanced at it sidelong. “Why? The blood that pulses through my veins is no less ancient. Nor are the movements of my soul. You are not so old as the Truth.”
He could fairly hear the creature’s sneer.
“You still do not understand them,” Cnaiür continued. “Before all, the Dûnyain are intellect. I do not know their ends, but I do know this: they make instruments of all things, and they do so with a way beyond the ken of me or even you, Demon.”
“You think I underestimate them.”
Cnaiür turned his back to the sea. “It is inevitable,” he said, shrugging. “We are little more than children to them, imbeciles drawn from the womb. Think on it, Bird. Moënghus has dwelt among the Kianene for thirty years. I know not your power, but I do know this: he lies far beyond it.”
Moënghus … Simply speaking the name cramped his heart.
“As you say, Scylvendi, you know not my power.”
Cnaiür cursed and laughed. “Would you like to know what a Dûnyain would hear in your words?”
“And what might that be?”
“Posturing. Vanity. Weaknesses that betray your measure and offer innumerable lines of assault. A Dûnyain would grant you your declarations. He would encourage you in your confidence. In all things, he would dispense flattering appearances. He would care nothing whether you thought him your lesser, your slave, so long as you remained ignorant.”
For a moment the abomination simply stared, as though implications could only file singly through its apple-sized skull. Its face screwed into a miniature simulacrum of contempt. “Ignorant? Ignorant of what?”
Cnaiür spat. “Your true circumstances.”
“And what are my true circumstances, Scylvendi?”
“That you are being played. That you flounder in nets of your own making. The circumstances you struggle to master, Bird, have long ago mastered you. Of course you think otherwise. Like men, power stands high among your native desires. But you are a tool, as much as any Man of the Tusk.”
It crooked its head to the side. “How, then, am I to become my own instrument?”
Cnaiür snorted. “For centuries you have manipulated events from the dark, or so you claim. Now you assume that you must do the same, that nothing has changed. I assure you, everything has changed. You think yourself hidden, but you are not. Chances are he already knows you have approached me. Chances are he already knows your ends and your resources.”
Even the ancient things, Cnaiür realized, would suffer the Holy War’s fate. The Dûnyain would strip them the way the People stripped the carcasses of bison. Flesh for sustenance. Fat for soap and fuel. Bone for implements. Hide for shelter and shields. No matter how deep they ran, the ages themselves would be consumed. The Dûnyain was something new. Perpetually new.
Like lust or hunger.
“You must abandon your old ways, Bird. You must strike across trackless ground. You must surrender brute circumstance to him, because in this you cannot hope to match him. Instead, you must watch. Wait. You must become a student of opportunity.”
“Opportunity … for what?”
Cnaiür held out a scarred fist. “To kill him! To kill Anasûrimbor Kellhus while you still can!”
“He is naught but a trifle,” the bird crowed. “So long as he leads the Holy War to Shimeh, he works our will.”
“Fool!” Cnaiür cackled.
The bird held forth its wings in wrath. “Do you not know who I am?”
The pools about Cnaiür’s feet flared bright with images: of Sranc loping through fire-gilded streets, of Dragons climbing tormented skies, of human heads smoking about bronze rings, and of a high-winged monstrosity … Blazing eyes and translucent flesh.
“Behold!”
But Cnaiür held his Trinket fast in his fist. He was not cowed. “Sorcery?” he laughed. “You merely toss shanks to the wolves of my argument. Even as we speak, he learns sorcery!”
The light vanished and only the bird remained, its human head white in the moonlight.
“The Mandate Schoolman,” Cnaiür said in explanation. “He teaches him—”
“It will take him years, you fool …”
Cnaiür spat, managed to shake his head ruefully despite the mad disproportion between the thing before him and the aura of its might. Pity for the powerful—did that not make one great?
“You forget, Bird. He learned my people’s tongue in four days.”
Kneeling naked in his apartments, he neither moved nor started at the sound of approaching footsteps. He was Ikurei Conphas I. And though he had no choice but to continue this obscene pantomime with the Scylvendi—surprise was ever the grist of victory—his subordinates were a different matter altogether. At long last the days of censoring his words and rationing his actions were over. His uncle’s spies were now his spies, and he knew quite well the length and beam of his own sedition.
“The Saik Grandmaster has arrived,” Sompas said from the darkness behind him.
“Just Cememketri?” Conphas replied. “No one else?”
“Your instructions were explicit, God-of-Men.”
The Emperor smiled. “Wait with him. I come shortly.”
Never had he been so desperate for information. The anxiousness was so acute that he had no choice but to master it. The hunger that whined the loudest should always be the last fed. One must have discipline about the Imperial Table.
He barked into the gloom after the General had departed. A naked Kianene girl crept forward, her eyes wide in terror. Conphas patted the rug before him, watched impassively as she assumed the position—knees spread, shoulders down, peach raised—before him. Hiking his kilt, he knelt between her orange legs. He need only strike her once before she learned to hold the mirror steady. But as he began to minister to her, another far better idea came upon him. He bid her hold the mirror before his face, so that her own reflection stared down upon her.
“Watch yourself,” he cooed. “Watch, and the pleasure will come … I swear it.”
For some reason the cold press of silver against h
is cheek fanned his ardour. They climaxed together, despite her shame. It made her seem more than the animal he knew her to be.
He would make, he decided, a far different Emperor from his uncle.
Seven days had passed since his meeting with Fanayal, and still the point had not taken. Conphas was not one to fret over omens—he had watched his fool uncle twist from that wire for far too long—but he could not help but mourn the circumstance of his investiture. To rise to the Mantle of the Nansurium while prisoner of a Scylvendi—a Scylvendi! And to learn of it from a Kianene—from the Padirajah, no less! Though the humiliation meant nothing to him, it was an irony too sharp not to smack of the Gods. What if his candle had burned to the stub? What if they did begrudge their brothers?
The timing was all wrong.
Momemn was almost certainly in an uproar. According to Fanayal’s sources, Ngarau, his uncle’s Grand Seneschal, had taken matters in hand, hoping to secure Conphas’s favour upon his return. Fanayal had insisted that his succession was secure—that no one either on or off the Andiamine Heights would dare foment against the great Lion of Kiyuth. And though Conphas’s vanity assured him this was true, he could not overlook the fact that this was precisely what the newly anointed Padirajah needed him to believe. Though the Holy War lay far from Nenciphon and the White-Sun Palace, Kian stood upon the brink of an abyss. And if Conphas rushed to Momemn to secure his claim, Fanayal would be doomed.
What Son of the Salt would not say anything to save his nation?
Two things had convinced him to remain in Joktha and continue this farce with the Scylvendi: the prospect of crossing Khemema once again, and the fact that, according to Fanayal, it had been his grandmother who had killed Xerius. As mad as the notion seemed, and as much as Fanayal’s protestations had provoked his suspicion, he somehow knew that this simply had to be what had happened. Years before, she had killed her husband to install her beloved son. And now she had killed her son to install her beloved grandson …