And no one knew what it meant.
“Judge us not according to our trespasses …”
Shimeh.
“But according to our temptations …”
Shimeh at long last.
If she was not holy before, Proyas decided, Xinemus and all the uncounted dead had made her such. There was no working back from what was final.
The Ainoni of Moserothu stood scattered across the shallow heights, watching their Palatine, the hard-hearted Uranyanka, lead the Warrior-Prophet to the best vantage. The two men paused beside a wall so ancient that grasses thronged along its broken crest—one of several ruined mausoleums set across the hillside.
Before them stretched the Plains of Shairizor, still blackened from the recent burning of fields and plantations. The River Jeshimal bisected the distances, winding like a rope into the violet and mauve foothills of the Betmulla Mountains. A great city occupied the heart of the plain, gathered about a pair of promontories overlooking the Meneanor. Her curtain walls, which had been tiled in white, gleamed in the sunlight. Great eyes, each as tall as a tree, marred their circuit and seemed to stare back at them.
Shimeh. The Sacred City of the Latter Prophet. At long last.
Some fell to their knees, bawling like children. But most simply stared, their faces blank.
Names were like baskets. Usually they came to men already filled, with refuse, banalities, and valuables mixed in various measures. But sometimes the passage of events overthrew them. Sometimes they came to bear different burdens. Heavier things. Darker things.
Shimeh was such a name.
From the four corners of Eärwa they had come. They had hungered about the walls of Momemn. They had survived the great bloodlettings of Mengedda and Anwurat. They had cleansed Shigek with their fury, walked the furnace plains of the Great Carathay. They had endured pestilence, starvation, and insurrection. They had nearly murdered the God’s own Prophet. Now, at last, they apprehended the purpose of their heartbreaking labour.
For the pious and the sentimental, this was a moment of consummation. But for those scarred by their innumerable trials, this could only be a time of measure. What could be worth what they had suffered? What could repay what they had exacted? This place? This chalk-white city?
Shimeh?
Somewhere, somehow, the name had been overturned.
But as always, the words of the Warrior-Prophet circulated among them. “This,” he was said to have said, “is not your destination. It’s your destiny.”
Parties of knights struck across the plain, while more and more Men of the Tusk crowded the hillside. Soon the entire Holy War stood arrayed along the summits, staring and pointing.
There, to the south, was the Shrine of Azoroa, where Inri Sejenus had given the first of his sermons. And there was the High Round, the great fortress raised by Triamarius II, its black concentric walls overlooking the Meneanor. And to its right, with its ochre stone and cyclopean pillars, was the Mokhal Palace, the ancient seat of the Amoti Kings. And that line, running from the hills to the city across the Shairizor Plain, marked the remnants of the Skiluran Aqueduct, named after the most gluttonous of Amoteu’s Nansur rulers.
And there, on the Juterum, the Holy Heights, stood the First Temple, the great circular gallery of columns that marked the site of the Latter Prophet’s Ascension. And to its right, with a gold-flaring dome above a façade of stacked colonnades, was the dread Ctesarat, the cancer they had come to excise …
The great tabernacle of the Cishaurim.
Only as the sun drew their shadows to the footings of the many-eyed walls did they abandon the hillsides to strike camp on the plain below. Few slept that night, such was their confusion. Such was their wonder.
Spring, 4112 Year-of-the-Tusk, Amoteu
Every Biaxi breathing, the Exalt-General—the Emperor—had said. I shall burn you all alive.
General Biaxi Sompas found himself obsessing over these words. Would he do such a thing? The answer to that question was obvious. Ikurei Conphas was capable of anything—one need only spend a day in his company to know that. And there was always Martemus to remember. But could he? That was the question. Old Xerius would never dare. He understood, even respected, the power of House Biaxi. There would be uproar in the Houses of the Congregate, even insurrection. If one House could be scratched from the Lines, then any House could be.
Besides, the Ikureis had enough enemies as it was … Conphas wouldn’t dare!
But he would. Sompas could feel it in his bones. Conphas would dare. And what was more, the other Houses would simply stand by and watch. Who would raise arms against the Lion of Kiyuth? Sweet Sejenus, the Army had chosen him over a prophet.
No. No. He did the right thing, the only thing he could do … under the circumstances.
“We’ve come too far east,” Captain Agnaras said in his dour, matter-of-fact way.
Of course, you idiot! That’s the idea …
They had been fleeing for several days now: himself, his Captain, his sorcerer, and some eleven other Kidruhil. They still called it “hunting,” but, with the possible exception of the Saik Schoolman, they knew: they were being hunted. He could no longer remember the last contact they’d had with any of the other parties, though he knew others had to be out there, somewhere. They still rode across the wrinkled feet of the Betmulla, though the forests had become temple deep, almost reminiscent of those beneath the Hethanta Mountains. The sun had drawn low on the western horizon, its warmth and light baffled by the soaring canopy. Their horses trod across soft and uneven humus. The deepening shadows seemed to whine with horror.
He had panicked, he realized that now. He’d felt the Scylvendi slipping away, so he’d divided his search parties into even smaller units, telling himself he needed a finer net. That was when things began falling apart, when the trail they followed became strewn with Kidruhil, dead and desecrated. Riders were dispatched to muster the scattered parties, never to return. The sense of dread had grown, like a rash made gangrenous from scratching. Then one morning—Sompas could no longer remember which—they had woken up fugitives.
But how could he have known?
No. No. Demons hadn’t been part of the bargain, Saik or no Saik.
“We’ve come too far,” the weather-beaten Captain repeated, peering through the darkness that bloated through the towering cedars. “The Holy War must be near … either them or the Fanim.”
According to Agnaras, they had passed out of Xerash some time ago. Holy Amoteu, he found himself thinking. The Sacred Land …
His men pretended not to notice his strange laugh. Ouras, however, snorted in disgust. The Schoolman—one of those sallow, impudent types—had stopped disguising his contempt several days ago.
He pressed on, though he could sense their growing impatience. Swaying to the pitch of their saddles, they passed between the great low-forking trunks, riding in loose formation. Cones crunched beneath hooves. Resin bittered the air. The sun fell, and with every passing moment the depths of the forest became less distinct, as though black gauze had been strung between the trees. This, Sompas decided, had to be the Forest of Hebanah, as it was called in the days of The Tractate. But since Temple, for him, had been little more than an excuse to carouse and politick, he remembered little of what the scripture had to say of the place.
Without warning, and quite without permission, Captain Agnaras called a halt. They had come to a clearing of sorts, a broad expanse beneath the bowers of an ancient cedar more massive than any the General had ever seen. Weary and wordless, his cavalrymen dismounted and set about their assigned tasks. Not one dared look at him.
The horses were attended to, the fires kindled, and the tents pitched. Soon the darkness was near absolute, and smoke pillared the clearing, winding high into the heart of the sheltering cedar. Sitting upon one of the humped roots, the General could only watch, idly pinching the hem of his blue mantle.
Very little was said.
When the sorcerer slipp
ed away to relieve himself, Sompas found himself joining him. He was not quite willing things to happen anymore—they just … happened.
I have no choice!
They stood side by side amid some scrub just outside the circle of firelight.
“This has been a disaster,” the Schoolman snapped, watching him in the indirect way of urinating men. “An absolute disaster. You can be assured, General, that all this will find its way to official parch—”
It had quite possessed a soul of its own. Rising and falling with nary a glimmer.
Such a naughty knife.
Sompas cleaned it on the twitching man’s leggings, then joined his men, his glorious Kidruhil, about the fire. Them he could trust to understand—enough of them, anyway. But a sorcerer?
Please.
He had no choice. It simply had to happen.
It wasn’t just his own skin at stake, it was his entire line. He couldn’t allow his ill fortune—for it was nothing more—to blot out all of House Biaxi. Conphas would do it—without scruple or compunction. His only hope, Sompas had realized, was to see him dead. His only hope was to find the Holy War, to throw himself on the mercy of the Warrior-Prophet … to let him know.
And who knew? With the accursed Ikurei wiped out, perhaps a Biaxi might find his way to the Mantle. An Emperor conspiring against his faith with the Fanim? The more Sompas had considered it, the more it seemed that honour and righteousness bound him to this course. He had no choice …
Surprised at his own calm, Sompas joined Agnaras, who sat alone at the officers’ fire. The man seemed to work hard not to look at him.
“Where’s Ouras?” Sompas asked, as though annoyed at a generally acknowledged fool.
“Who knows?” the Captain replied. “In the woods, shitting …” Who cares? his tone said. There was relief in that.
Sitting on his camp stool, the General clutched his hands together before the flames lest the hard-boiled soldier see them shake. Agnaras was a Threesie in the classic mould. He understood weakness, which was far more dangerous than simply holding it in contempt—for Sompas, anyway. The General glanced at the other, larger fire, where the others congregated, and a number of looks clicked instantly away. They were too silent, and their faces, etched in the kindling firelight, were far too blank. Suddenly he could feel it. They were waiting …
For an opportunity to cut his throat.
Sompas returned his gaze to the fire, thought of Ouras lying crumpled in the undergrowth mere lengths away. He would have to pick his moment carefully … and his words.
Or perhaps he should just slip away …
“Who guards the perimeter?” he asked Agnaras, making his decision even as he spoke.
Yes-yes-slip-away-run-run—
Shouts brought him and Agnaras to their feet.
“There’s something in the tre—”
“I hear it! I hear—”
“Shut up!” the Captain roared. “All of you!” He held his hands out to either side, as though literally holding their voices down. The fires seemed to cackle. A coal popped. Sompas jumped.
Weapons drawn, they stood listening for a dreadful moment, peering into the canopy but seeing only the limbs that raftered air immediately above them—those painted by firelight. The smoke seemed to roll up into oblivion.
Then they heard it: a rasp from the blackness above. There was a small rain of grit, then bark twirled across the clearing.
“Sweet Sejenus!” one of the cavalrymen gasped, only to be silenced by barks of anger.
There was a sound, like that of a little boy pissing across leather. A sizzling hiss drew their attention to the main fire. It seemed all their eyes focused upon it at once: a thread of blood unwinding across the flames …
Followed by a plummeting shadow. Fiery wood and coals exploded outward. Smoke billowed. Men cried out in the sudden twilight, stumbled back. Some frantically beat at sparks on cloaks and clothing. Sompas could only stare at Ouras, bent backward over the heaped fire, broken and bleeding.
The horses screamed and reared beneath the trees, little more than dancing shadows in the greater black. Agnaras bawled out orders—
But she had already dropped into their midst, falling like rope.
All Sompas could do was stagger backward. He had no choice …
The Captain fell first, tripping to his knees, coughing, gagging, as if trying to dislodge a chicken bone. Two more followed, clutching wounds that glittered black. Sompas could scarce see her longsword, it moved so fast.
Blonde hair whisked like silk in the gloom, chasing a pale face of impossible beauty. And the General realized he recognized her … the Prince of Atrithau’s woman. The one whose corpse had been hung with the man in Caraskand.
She had come down from her tree.
The Kidruhil retreated before her whirling figure, flailing with their blades. She leapt after them, catching a man’s throat like an orange on the tip of her sword. Howling out of the darkness, the Scylvendi barrelled into their flank, hewing them with great sweeping strokes. Men fell in gouts.
Then it was over, save for a gagging that might have been a shriek.
Shirtless, slicked in sweat, the Scylvendi turned to him and spat, a thing of scars and cuts that would be scars. Despite his prodigious size, he seemed scarecrow thin, like something starved of far more than food. His eyes glinted from beneath his battered brow.
His stance wide, the barbarian stood before Sompas while the beautiful woman circled behind. From nowhere, it seemed, a third figure leapt from the blackness beyond the fires, landing in a crouch to the Scylvendi’s left. A man Sompas did not recognize.
A shudder seized the Nansur General, and he found himself, absurdly, thankful he had relieved his bladder just moments earlier. He hadn’t even drawn his sword.
“She saw you murder the other,” the Scylvendi said, wiping spattered blood into a smear across his cheek. “Now she wants to fuck.”
A warm hand snaked along the back of his neck, pressed against his cheek.
That night Biaxi Sompas learned that there were rules for everything, including what could and could not happen to one’s own body. These, he discovered, were the most sacred rules of all.
Once, in the screaming, snarling misery of it all, he thought of his wives and children burning.
But only once.
Spring, 4112 Year-of-the-Tusk, Shimeh
In the dawning light, the Judges led great trains of the faithful to bathe in the River Jeshimal. Many beat their own backs with branches, an impromptu rite of penance. Parties of mounted knights watched over the worshippers, wary of marauders from the city, whose white turrets loomed in the near distance. But the black gates remained shut, and no heathen dared molest them.
Their hair wet and their eyes bright, most returned to the encampment singing, certain they had been cleansed. But some were unnerved, for the many-eyed walls seemed to mock them. The Tatokar Walls, they called them, though few knew the significance of the name.
Along with Kyudea, her ruined sister to the northwest, Shimeh had been the ancestral seat of the Amoti Kings. In the time of Inri Sejenus, the city was far smaller, encompassing only the heights to the east of the Jeshimal. By the time Triamis I declared Inrithism the official faith of the Ceneian Empire, the city had doubled in size, swollen by the influx of pilgrims and markets. But unlike Caraskand, which was at once a strategic caravan entrepot and exposed to the unruly tribes of the Carathay, the Aspect-Emperors saw no need to raise walls about the greater city; after all, the entire Three Seas lay under Cenei’s heavy but prosperous hand. Even in the turbulent days following the Empire’s collapse, during Amoteu’s brief and contentious independence, no defences—save the Heterine Wall about the Sacred Heights—were constructed.
It was Surmante Xatantius I, the warlike Nansur Emperor famous for his endless wars against Nilnamesh, who first walled the outer city, taking ancient representations of Mehtsonc’s many-towered fortifications as his model. The white-glazed t
ile was added centuries later by the Cishaurim under Tatokar I: apparently the High Heresiarch disapproved of Xatantius’s quarries. The towering eyes were the responsibility of Tatokar’s successor, the famed poet Hahkti ab Sibban. When a visiting Ainoni dignitary asked him for an explanation, he reportedly said they were to remind the idolaters that “the Solitary God does not blink”—to shame them, in effect. Even then, the silting of Shimeh’s harbour had forced Inrithi pilgrims to enter the city via her gates.
Origins aside, the eyes became the subject of ceaseless debate among the Men of the Tusk. Sometimes they seemed to gaze with bland curiosity, and at others to glare in a kind of entranced fury. The longer the Inrithi pondered them, the more Shimeh took on the aura of a living thing, until she seemed some great and unfathomable beast, like a vast, ramshackle crab sunning onshore after crawling up from the deep. It made the prospect of assaulting the city … uncertain.
Who knew what living things might do?
Where there had been many voices, many wills, now there was but one. With the Logos he had sown, and now with the Logos he would reap.
Soon, Father. I will see you soon.
Turning from Esmenet, Kellhus held out his radiant hands, and a hush passed through the vast congregation. Earlier, he had sent messengers announcing a final Council of Great and Lesser Names on the slopes above the teeming encampment. As he had expected, far more than the caste-nobility had answered his call. Fairly half the Holy War had massed on the incline before him, clotting the summit, perched like crows along the rims of those ruined sepulchres near enough to afford a view.
He stood partway down the slope so that, for those above, Shimeh would rise like a halo about his head and shoulders. The Lords of the Holy War occupied an oblong clearing immediately before him, sitting in the grass. Their look was at once eager and chaste, brimming with enthusiasm yet wary of the cauldron to come. To their right, forming a south shore for the sea of faces rising behind them, the Nascenti stood stiff with uncertain pride, doing their best to convey the impression that they alone knew what was about to happen. Eleäzaras, Iyokus, and several other Scarlet Schoolmen stood on the opposite shore, their faces blank with anxiousness. Kellhus saw Eleäzaras lean to listen to the bandaged Iyokus. The Grandmaster’s gaze momentarily clicked to Achamian, who stood—as usual—on Kellhus’s left.