Part 18 (1/2)

Kellhus nodded, utterly unconcerned. ”And this is why the Anagogic Schools have never been able to steal the Gnosis. Why simply reciting what they hear is useless.”

”There's the metaphysics to consider as well. But, yes, in all sorcery the inutterals are key.”

Kellhus nodded. ”Has anyone experimented with further inutteral strings?”

Achamian swallowed. ”What do you mean?”

By some coincidence two of the hanging lanterns guttered at the same time, drawing Achamian's eyes upward. They instantly resumed their soundless illumination.

”Has anyone devised Cants consisting of two two inutteral strings?” inutteral strings?”

The ”Third Phrase” was a thing of myth in Gnostic sorcery, a story handed down to Men during the Nonman Tutelage: the legend of Su'juroit, the great Cunuroi Witch-King. But for some reason, Achamian found himself loath to relate the tale. ”No,” he lied. ”It's impossible.”

From this point, a strange breathlessness characterized their lessons, an unsettling sense that the ba.n.a.lity of what Achamian said belied unthinkable repercussions. Years ago he had partic.i.p.ated in a Mandate-sanctioned a.s.sa.s.sination of a suspected Ainoni spy in Conriya. All Achamian had done was hand a folded oak leaf containing belladonna to a scullery slave. The action had been so simple, so innocuous ...

Three men and one woman had died.

As always with Kellhus, Achamian needed only to gloss the various topics, and then only once. Within the course of single evenings Kellhus mastered arguments, explanations, and details that had taken Achamian years to internalize. His questions always struck to the heart. His observations never failed to chill with their rigour and penetration. Then at last, as the first elements of the Holy War invested Gerotha, they came to the precipice.

Kellhus beamed with grat.i.tude and good humour. He stroked his flaxen beard in an uncharacteristic gesture of excitement, and for an instant resembled no one so much as Inrau. His eyes reflected three points of light, one for each of the lanterns suspended above Achamian.

”So the time has finally come.”

Achamian nodded, knowing his apprehension was plain to see. ”We should start with some basic Ward,” he said awkwardly. ”Something you can use to defend yourself.”

”No,” Kellhus replied. ”Begin with a Cant of Calling.”

Achamian frowned, but he knew better than to counsel or contradict. Breathing deeply, he opened his mouth to recite the first utteral string of the Ishra Discursia, the most ancient and most simple of the Gnostic Cants of Calling. But for some reason no sound escaped his lips. It seemed he should be speaking, but something ... inflexible had seized his throat. He shook his head and laughed, glancing away in embarra.s.sment, then tried once again.

Still nothing.

”I ...” Achamian looked to Kellhus, more than baffled. ”I cannot speak.”

Kellhus watched him carefully, peering first at his face, then apparently at an empty point in the air between them. ”Seswatha,” he said after a moment. ”How else could the Mandate have safeguarded the Gnosis for so many years? Even with the nightmares ...”

An unaccountable relief washed through Achamian. ”It-it must be ...”

He looked to Kellhus helplessly. Despite all his turmoil, he truly wanted wanted to yield the Gnosis. Somehow it had become oppressive in the manner of shameful acts, and for whatever reason, all secrets clamoured for light in Kellhus's presence. He shook his head, lowered his face into his hands, saw Xinemus screaming, his face clenched about the knifepoint in his eye. to yield the Gnosis. Somehow it had become oppressive in the manner of shameful acts, and for whatever reason, all secrets clamoured for light in Kellhus's presence. He shook his head, lowered his face into his hands, saw Xinemus screaming, his face clenched about the knifepoint in his eye.

”I must speak with him,” Kellhus said.

Achamian gaped at the man, incredulous. ”With Seswatha? I don't understand.”

Kellhus reached to his belt and drew one of his daggers: the Eumarnan one, with a black pearl handle and a long thin blade, like those Achamian's father had used for deboning fish. For a panicked instant Achamian thought that Kellhus meant to debone him, him, to cut Seswatha from his skin, perhaps the way physician-priests sometimes cut living infants from dying mothers. Instead he merely twirled the pommel across the table of his palm, holding it balanced so that the Seleukaran steel flashed in the light of their fire-pot. to cut Seswatha from his skin, perhaps the way physician-priests sometimes cut living infants from dying mothers. Instead he merely twirled the pommel across the table of his palm, holding it balanced so that the Seleukaran steel flashed in the light of their fire-pot.

”Watch the play of light,” he said. ”Watch only the light.”

With a shrug, Achamian gazed at the weapon, found himself captivated by the multiple ghosts that formed about the spinning blade's axis. He had the sense of watching silver through dancing water, then ...

What followed defeated description. There was a peculiar impression of elongation, elongation, as though his eyes had been drawn across open s.p.a.ce into airy corners. He could remember his head falling back, and the sense that, even though he still owned his bones, his muscles belonged to someone else, so that it seemed he was as though his eyes had been drawn across open s.p.a.ce into airy corners. He could remember his head falling back, and the sense that, even though he still owned his bones, his muscles belonged to someone else, so that it seemed he was restrained restrained by the force of another in a manner more profound than chains or even inhumation. He could remember speaking, but could recollect nothing of what he said. It was as though his memory of the exchange had been affixed to the edges of his periphery, where it remained no matter how quickly he snapped his head. Always just on the threshold of the perceptible ... by the force of another in a manner more profound than chains or even inhumation. He could remember speaking, but could recollect nothing of what he said. It was as though his memory of the exchange had been affixed to the edges of his periphery, where it remained no matter how quickly he snapped his head. Always just on the threshold of the perceptible ...

Unknown permissions.

He began to ask Kellhus what had happened, but the man silenced him with a closed-eye grin, the one he typically used to effortlessly dismiss what seemed to be crucial questions. Kellhus told him to try repeating the first phrase. With something akin to awe, Achamian found the first words tumbling from his lips-the first utteral string ...

”Iratisrineis lo ocoimenein loroi hapara ...”

Followed by the corresponding inutteral string.

”Li lijineriera cui as.h.i.+ritein hejaroit hejaroit ...” ...”

For a moment Achamian felt disoriented, such was the ease of reciting these strings apart. How thin his voice felt! He gathered his wits in the ensuing silence, watching Kellhus with something between hope and horror. The air itself seemed numb.

It had taken Achamian seven months to master the simultaneous inner and outer expressions of the utteral and the inutteral strings, and even then he'd started with the remedial semantic constructions of the denotaries. But somehow, with Kellhus ...

Silence, so absolute it seemed he could hear the lanterns wheeze their white light.

Then, with a faint otherworldly smile upon his lips, Kellhus nodded, looked directly into his eyes, and repeated, ”Iratisrineis lo ocoimenein loroi hapara,” ”Iratisrineis lo ocoimenein loroi hapara,” but in a way that rumbled like trailing thunder. but in a way that rumbled like trailing thunder.

For the first time Achamian saw Kellhus's eyes glow glow. Like coals beneath the bellows.

Terror clawed the breath from his lungs, the blood from his limbs. If a fool such as him could bring down ramparts of stone with such words, what could this man do?

What were his limits?

He remembered his argument with Esmenet in s.h.i.+gek long ago, before the Library of the Sareots. What did it mean for a prophet prophet to sing in the G.o.d's own voice? Would that make him a shaman, as in the days described in the Tusk? Or would it make him a to sing in the G.o.d's own voice? Would that make him a shaman, as in the days described in the Tusk? Or would it make him a G.o.d G.o.d?

”Yes,” Kellhus murmured, and he uttered the words again, words that spoke from the marrow of existence, that resonated at the pitch of souls. His eyes flashed, like gold afire. Ground and air hummed.

And at last Achamian realized ...

I have not the concepts to comprehend him.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

JOKTHA.

Every woman knows there are only two kinds of men: those who feel and those who pretend. Always remember, my dear, though only the former can be loved, only the latter can be trusted. It is pa.s.sion that blackens eyes, not calculation.