Part 25 (1/2)

Startled, Achamian glanced back to the stair, saw Kellhus descend to the first landing, his beard plaited in the fas.h.i.+on of ancient s.h.i.+r, his white vestments chased with s.h.i.+mmering gold. It was strange-even terrifying-to sense the Mark on him as well. It dirtied him somehow, even as it augured an unthinkable future.

Achamian turned back to the sky, but the bird was nowhere to be seen.

”At long last,” Kellhus continued, casually descending the final turn of the stair, ”we tread the very ground of scripture.”

Achamian's thoughts raced. What should he do? Was the Consult planning an attack, or was it simply the Scarlet Spires, up to some d.a.m.nable scarlet mischief? He resolved to remain wary, to ignore the tidal pull of Kellhus's oratory.

The Warrior-Prophet crossed the dais to Esmenet, placed what seemed a luminous hand on her shoulder. ”From this very place,” he said, ”old s.h.i.+kol looked to his debauched court and asked, 'Who is this menial who speaks as King?'” He gestured to ruined Charaoth-an expansive wave. ”From this very place-here-s.h.i.+kol raised the Gilded Thighbone ...

”He judged my brother.”

As always, Kellhus spoke as though his words had no significance outside the Truth that shone through them-as though they were consumed by their meaning. Attend only to these simple things, Attend only to these simple things, his tone said, his tone said, and you shall be astonished and you shall be astonished.

Achamian struggled to remain alert.

”At long last, we holy travellers, we Men of the Tusk, tread the very ground of scripture.” Kellhus's expression darkened, and he looked about, to the lintel hanging above, to the columns queued across the floors before him. What had been hushed expectation escalated into something more profound, as though all present had become as breathless as the stone about them. ”This, ”This, this is the very house of my brother's oppressor. This is the house of he who would murder Inri Sejenus, asking 'Who is this menial who speaks as King?'” this is the very house of my brother's oppressor. This is the house of he who would murder Inri Sejenus, asking 'Who is this menial who speaks as King?'”

”Think! Think of how far we have come. Think of all the lands, both sumptuous and severe. Think of all the steaming cities. Think of all that we have conquered conquered! And now we have arrived at the very gates gates ...He reached out to the eastern haze with his right hand, and again Achamian saw it, the disc of ethereal gold, the halo ... ...He reached out to the eastern haze with his right hand, and again Achamian saw it, the disc of ethereal gold, the halo ...

Someone cried out in rapture.

”One last horizon!” Kellhus cried, his voice at once rumbling from the skies and whispering into every ear. ”One last horizon and we shall see the Sacred Land. One final march, and at last, at long last, at long last, we shall raise sword and song to Holy s.h.i.+meh! Even now we shall raise sword and song to Holy s.h.i.+meh! Even now we rewrite the scripture of this place we rewrite the scripture of this place!

The Great and Lesser Names, who had watched rapt, erupted in shouts of ardour and wors.h.i.+p. And Achamian could not but wonder what they must sound like to the Gerothans skulking the alleys below. The mad conquerors ...

”Never!” Kellhus thundered. ”Never has the world seen such a band as we ... We Men of the Tusk.” Suddenly he swept his sword, Certainty, from its sheath. It glared milk-white in the sun. Achamian watched its reflected light bounce across the Lords of the Holy War. Men squinted and blinked.

”We are the G.o.d's own knife, knife, cast in the crucible of plague, thirst, and starvation, tempered by the hammers of war, doused in the blood of countless enemies! cast in the crucible of plague, thirst, and starvation, tempered by the hammers of war, doused in the blood of countless enemies!

”We ...” He trailed without warning, smiled as though caught in the commission of some harmless vice. ”It is the wont of Men to boast,” he said ruefully. ”Who among us hasn't whispered lies in a maiden's ear?” Laughter rumbled through the headless pillars. ”Anything that might make them ponder the swing of our kilts ...” More laughter, this time booming. Gone was the high oratory; the Warrior-Prophet had become the Prince of Atrithau, their wry and even-handed peer. He shrugged, grinned like a man among those about to drink.

”Even still, what is, is ... War watches through our eyes. Doom itself echoes in our call.

”What is, is is. The glory of our undertaking will outs.h.i.+ne that belonging to any any of our forefathers. It will be a beacon through the Ages. It will astonish and gratify, and yea, it will even outrage. It will be recited by a thousand thousand lips. It will be committed to memory. And the children of our children's children will take up their ancestor lists and invoke our names with reverence and awe, for they shall know their blood is blessed-blessed!-by our greatness. of our forefathers. It will be a beacon through the Ages. It will astonish and gratify, and yea, it will even outrage. It will be recited by a thousand thousand lips. It will be committed to memory. And the children of our children's children will take up their ancestor lists and invoke our names with reverence and awe, for they shall know their blood is blessed-blessed!-by our greatness.

”We, we Men of the Tusk, are more more. We are giants! Giants!”

Roaring exultation. Captured by the momentum of his words, Achamian found himself crying out as well. Wry to resounding ... from where had this bursting pa.s.sion come? He saw tears course down Esmenet's cheek.

”So who?” Kellhus bellowed through the trailing thunder. ”Who is this menial who speaks as King?”

Sudden silence. The buckled stone, with its lattice of weeds and gra.s.ses, seemed to hum. The Warrior-Prophet held out both s.h.i.+ning hands-a welcome, an appeal, a breathtaking benediction. And he whispered ...

”I am.”

Without exception, men submitted to the hierarchy of the moving and the immovable. They stood upon upon the earth, they travelled over the land. But with Kellhus, even this fundamental orthodoxy was upended: with his every step he seemed to the earth, they travelled over the land. But with Kellhus, even this fundamental orthodoxy was upended: with his every step he seemed to carry carry the world with him. the world with him.

So when he descended the dais and gestured to Incheiri Gotian to lead the Lords of the Holy War in prayer, it seemed the world itself was bent. As the intonations boomed between the walls, Achamian blinked the sweat from his eyes, breathed deep the humid air. He thought of Esmenet lying with such a man, and he found himself fearing for her, as if she were a petal falling into a great fire ... He's a prophet! He's a prophet!

So what did that make of Achamian's hate?

From paths cut through the scree, slaves produced a long table and several chairs, which they set in the centremost aisle between the columns for Kellhus and the Great Names. With the Tusk and Circ.u.mfix hanging above, they sat as if for a ritual dinner, though they drank only watered wine. Achamian stood rigid throughout the ensuing discussions. It seemed surreal, but it was the conquest of Amoteu they plotted-the approaches to s.h.i.+meh! What Kellhus had said earlier was true ...they had had arrived. Almost. arrived. Almost.

The proceedings were remarkably civil; gone were the days of bickering fuelled by wounded or overweening pride. Even if Saubon and Conphas had been present, Achamian couldn't imagine any of the Great Names resorting to their old antics. Kellhus dwarfed them in a manner so absolute that, much as children, they had lost all care for the cubits between them. They were his unto death ... Kings and disciples.

Disagreements arose, to be certain, but the dissenters were neither scorned nor judged for merely expressing contrary opinions. As Kellhus himself said, where Truth was tyrant, the clear-eyed need fear no oppression. Proyas, especially, asked hard questions, and old Gothyelk somehow managed to restrict his outbursts to exasperated groans. Only Chinjosa seemed to play with his number-stick beneath his hand. Reasons were demanded and given, alternatives were explored and criticized, and as though by magic, the best way best way seemed to unfold of its own volition. seemed to unfold of its own volition.

Prince Hulwarga was given the honour of the van, since it was deemed that his Thunyeri would be the most able to weather any possible Fanim surprise. Count-Palatine Chinjosa and his Ainoni, along with Proyas and his Conriyans, were to const.i.tute the Holy War's main body. They would march directly on s.h.i.+meh, gathering food and siege materials as they went. Gotian and the Shrial Knights were to ride with them, as the personal guard of the Warrior-Prophet and his Sacral Retinue. Earl Gothyelk and his Tydonni, meanwhile, were given the task of isolating and overcoming Chargiddo, the Kyranean Age fortress that commanded the southwestern reaches of the Amoti and Xeras.h.i.+ frontier.

No one, not even Kellhus, seemed to know what the heathen had planned. All reports, especially those provided by the Scarlet Spires through Chinjosa, suggested that the Psukari, the Cishaurim, would not abandon s.h.i.+meh. This meant that Fanayal would either contest their advance into Amoteu or fall back on the Holy City. Either way, he would give battle. The survival of the Cishaurim hung in the balance, which meant the survival of Kian Kian hung in the balance. There could be no doubt that even now Fanayal mustered all possible means to overthrow them. Though Proyas counselled caution, the Warrior-Prophet was adamant: the Holy War must strike with all haste. hung in the balance. There could be no doubt that even now Fanayal mustered all possible means to overthrow them. Though Proyas counselled caution, the Warrior-Prophet was adamant: the Holy War must strike with all haste.

”We diminish,” he said, ”while they grow.”

Several times Achamian dared glance at Esmenet in her nearby seat. A string of discreet functionaries came and went, kneeling at her side, either asking questions or bearing tidings. By and large, however, she remained attentive to the discussions on the floor before her. Achamian found himself studying the white-robed Nascenti, who stood in a group immediately behind their Warrior-Prophet-Werjau and Gayamakri foremost among them. And the strangeness of it dawned on him, the way the Holy War, which had been little more than a migratory invasion led by a raucous council of chieftains, had somehow reorganized itself into an imperial court. This was no Council of Great and Lesser Names; Kellhus merely consulted his generals, nothing more. All of them had been ... redeployed. And true to benjuka, the rules governing their conduct had been completely rewritten. Even the ones that held Achamian motionless, here, as vizier to a prophet ...

It was too absurd.

The sun hung low over the humid countryside by the time Kellhus dissolved the Council. His head buzzing from the heat, Achamian waited out the obligatory prayers and rounds of self-congratulation. The combination of sun and inaction made him want to scream. Perversely, he found himself hoping that the bird from earlier did omen some kind of Consult attack. Anything but this ... stage.

Then, as if everyone had suddenly found themselves in agreement, the Council was over. The stone hollows between the ruins rumbled with shouts of greeting and casual conversation. Rubbing his neck, Achamian walked to the dais steps and unceremoniously dropped to his rump. He could feel Esmenet's gaze p.r.i.c.kle the small of his back, but Inrithi caste-n.o.bles were already climbing the dais to pay her homage, and he was too weary to do much more than pad the sweat from his face with his saffron sleeves.

A hand brushed his shoulder, as though someone had thought to clasp him but then reconsidered. Achamian turned to see Proyas. With his deep brown skin and silk khalat, he could have been a Kianene prince.

”Akka,” he said with a perfunctory nod.

”Proyas.”

An awkward moment pa.s.sed between them.

”I thought I should tell you,” he said, obviously discomfited. ”You should see Zin.”

”Did he send you?”

The Prince shook his head. He looked strange, far more mature, with his beard grown and plaited. ”He asks about you,” he said lamely. ”You should go see-”

”I cannot,” Achamian replied, far more sharply than he had wished. ”I'm all that stands between Kellhus and the Consult. I can't leave his side.”

Proyas's eyes narrowed in anger, but Achamian could not help but think that something had broken within the man. With Xinemus, he had abandoned seeking penance on his terms. He was someone who would no longer discriminate between afflictions. He would bear everything if he could.

”You've left his side before,” Proyas said evenly.

”Only at his request, and against my objections.”

Why this sudden need to punish? Now that Proyas required something of him, he was compelled to show him a reflection of his own callous disregard-to visit his own sins upon him. Even still, even after all Kellhus had taught him, Achamian carried the old ledgers in his heart, continued to tick off settled scores. Why do I always do this? Why do I always do this?

Proyas blinked, pursed his lips as though about sour teeth. ”You should go see Xinemus,” he said, this time making no attempt to disguise his bitterness. He left without saying farewell.

Too numb to think, Achamian watched the a.s.sembled caste-n.o.bles. Gaidekki and Ingiaban fenced jokes-no surprise there. Iryssas stammered to keep up; sometimes he alone seemed unchanged from Momemn. Gotian upbraided some young Shrial Knight. Soter and several other Ainoni seemed to be laughing at the sight of Uranyanka kissing the Warrior-Prophet's knee. Hulwarga stood mute in the shadow of his dead brother's groom, Yalgrota. Everybody talking and belonging, forming little interlocking circles, like the links of some greater armour ...