Part 26 (1/2)
”It's the meanings, meanings,” he continued. ”The meanings are different somehow. No one knows why.”
Kellhus nodded and looked down to the hem of his robe. When he glanced up, Achamian found his brilliant eyes impossible to match. ”The word 'love,'” he said, ”does it mean what it has always meant, or is the meaning different for you?”
Reward the intellect and punish the heart. It was always the same with Kellhus.
”What are you saying?”
”That the meaning is different because what it recollects is different.”
Esmenet.
”So you're suggesting that sorcerous words recollect recollect something other words do not?” Achamian asked this with more heat than he'd intended. Derision had stolen across his expression. ”But what could something other words do not?” Achamian asked this with more heat than he'd intended. Derision had stolen across his expression. ”But what could words words remember? Words arent ...” He trailed, his voice silenced by sudden understanding. remember? Words arent ...” He trailed, his voice silenced by sudden understanding. One One soul ... soul ...
”Not words, Akka. You You. What could you you remember that might make miracles of mere words?” remember that might make miracles of mere words?”
”I-I don't understand ...”
”But you do.”
Achamian blinked at the preposterous tears in his eyes. He thought of the Scarlet Spires and their compound in Iothiah, of the world flying apart beneath his outstretched fingers. And he remembered the meanings meanings that had thundered from his chest and soul, his world-racking song, compelling fire from empty air, light from black shadow, and the obliteration of all that offended. The words! The words that were his calling-his curse! The words that exacted the impossible ... that had thundered from his chest and soul, his world-racking song, compelling fire from empty air, light from black shadow, and the obliteration of all that offended. The words! The words that were his calling-his curse! The words that exacted the impossible ...
Penance from the world.
How could a mere man say such things?
”We kneel before idols,” Kellhus was saying, ”we hold open our arms to the sky. We beseech the distances, clutch at the horizon ... We look outward, Akka, always outward, for what lies lies within ...” He splayed a hand against his chest. ”For what lies within ...” He splayed a hand against his chest. ”For what lies here, here, in this Clearing that we share.” in this Clearing that we share.”
The sun had crossed the crimson threshold. The air seemed to purple, and the ruins were burnished in failing reds. The earlier breeze had faded to a sun-warm draft.
”The G.o.d,” Achamian said, but the voice was not his own. ”You're saying that this ... this one soul that looks out from behind all our eyes is the G.o.d.” Even though he spoke these words, even though he knew quite well what they meant, they escaped him somehow, fell from him without force of thought or comprehension. Achamian clutched his shoulders, felt a shudder pa.s.s through his portly frame.
”We are all G.o.d,” Kellhus said, now both solemn and enthused-like a father heartening a beaten son. ”The G.o.d is always here, watching through your very own eyes, and from the eyes of those about you. But we forget who we are, and we begin to think of here as another there: there: detached, isolate, abject before the immensities of the world. We forget ... But we don't all forget equally.” Kellhus fixed him with an implacable look. ”Those who forget the least, we call the Few.” detached, isolate, abject before the immensities of the world. We forget ... But we don't all forget equally.” Kellhus fixed him with an implacable look. ”Those who forget the least, we call the Few.”
There had been a moment, walking the fiery hallways of Iothiah, when Achamian's wrath had been checked, when he'd faltered, realizing he no longer recognized himself. He had cried out in Seswatha's voice, and had uttered words that had transcended the circle of even that ancient individuality-Cants that had made milk of what was hard, what was real ...
Who had he been? Who?
”To speak sorcery, Akka, is to speak words that recollect the Truth.”
”Truth,” Achamian numbly repeated. He understood what Kellhus said, he knew, knew, and yet something within him refused to and yet something within him refused to grasp grasp. ”What truth?”
”That this place behind our face, though separated by nations and ages, is the same place, the same here here. That each of us witnesses the world through innumerable eyes. That we we are the G.o.d we would wors.h.i.+p.” are the G.o.d we would wors.h.i.+p.”
And it seemed to Achamian that he could could remember, that across sea, mountain, and plain he saw the G.o.d blink a thousand times before a thousand hearths. A daughter gazing upon her slumbering father. An ancient wife clutching her husband's arm in spotted hands. A man spitting blood, beating an earthen floor in anguish. Here, now, in this one place ... How else could one explain the Cants of Calling or Compulsion? How else could one explain Seswatha's Dreams? remember, that across sea, mountain, and plain he saw the G.o.d blink a thousand times before a thousand hearths. A daughter gazing upon her slumbering father. An ancient wife clutching her husband's arm in spotted hands. A man spitting blood, beating an earthen floor in anguish. Here, now, in this one place ... How else could one explain the Cants of Calling or Compulsion? How else could one explain Seswatha's Dreams?
”For so long,” Kellhus was saying, ”you thought yourself a pariah, an outcast. And though your tongue was ever ready to accost those who would condemn you, you lived in shame. You would watch them, and you would curse yourself for hoping. Always stronger in the estimation of others-so they seemed. Always so certain. And always unable to see-the fools!-how extraordinary you truly were. They spat when they looked upon you. They laughed, and though you made their derision evidence of their stupidity, in the secret moments you grieved, you wept, and you asked, 'Why must I be cursed? Why must I be d.a.m.ned?'”
And Achamian thought, He is! He is He is! He is me! me!
Kellhus smiled, and somehow-impossibly-Achamian saw Inrau in the iridescent cast of his look. ”We are each other.”
But I'm broken broken ... Something's wrong with me! ... Something's wrong with me!
”Because you're a pious man born to a world unable to fathom your piety. But all that changes with me, Akka. The old revelations have outlived the age of their intention, and I have come to reveal the new. I am the Shortest Path, and I say that you are not not d.a.m.ned.” d.a.m.ned.”
Through the tumult of pa.s.sion that rocked him, something old and arcane whispered the Mandate Catechism. Though you lose your soul, you shall gain the Though you lose your soul, you shall gain the- But Kellhus was talking again, speaking in intonations that seemed to resonate across the warm evening air, to ring out from the very heart of things.
”A sorcerer's words work miracles because they recall the G.o.d ... Think, Akka! What does it mean to see the world as sorcerers see it? What does it mean to apprehend the onta? The many see the world through one pair of eyes; they grasp Creation from but a single vantage-one angle angle among many. But the Few-those who recollect, no matter how imperfectly, the G.o.d's voice-possess an intimation of many angles, a memory of the thousand eyes that look out from this clearing we call 'here.' As a result everything they see is transformed, shadowed by insinuations of more. among many. But the Few-those who recollect, no matter how imperfectly, the G.o.d's voice-possess an intimation of many angles, a memory of the thousand eyes that look out from this clearing we call 'here.' As a result everything they see is transformed, shadowed by insinuations of more.
”And think of the Mark ... For the many, sorcery is indistinguishable from the world-and how could it be otherwise, given they apprehend the world from but a single angle? For a man who cannot move, the facade simply is is the temple. But for the Few, who glimpse many angles, sorcery must reek of incompleteness, for where the G.o.d's true voice speaks to the totality of angles, the Few are constrained by the murk and imperfection of their recollections. They can conjure facades only ...” the temple. But for the Few, who glimpse many angles, sorcery must reek of incompleteness, for where the G.o.d's true voice speaks to the totality of angles, the Few are constrained by the murk and imperfection of their recollections. They can conjure facades only ...”
It seemed so obvious. All the a.n.a.logies of sorcerers as blasphemers, as abusers of the divinity within, as those who ape the G.o.d's sacred song, were but crude approximations, tenuous glimpses of a truth that Kellhus held in his lap!
”And the Cishaurim,” Achamian found himself saying, ”what of them?” The Warrior-Prophet shrugged. ”Think of the way a fire will shroud the world in the course of illuminating a camp. Often the light of what we see blinds us, and we come to think there is one angle and one angle only. Though they know it not, this is why the Cishaurim blind themselves. They douse the fire of their eyes, pluck the one angle they see, to better grasp the many they recollect recollect. They sacrifice the subtle articulations of knowledge for the inchoate profundities of intuition. They recall the tone and timbre, the pa.s.sion, pa.s.sion, of the G.o.d's voice-to near perfection-even as the meanings that make up true sorcery escape them.” of the G.o.d's voice-to near perfection-even as the meanings that make up true sorcery escape them.”
And there it was: the mysteries of the Psukhe, which had baffled sorcerous thinkers for centuries, dispelled in a handful of words.
The Warrior-Prophet turned to him, clutched his shoulder with a s.h.i.+ning hand. ”The Truth of Here is that it is Everywhere. And this, Akka, is what it means to be in love: to recognize the Here within the other, within the other, to see the world through another's eyes. To be to see the world through another's eyes. To be here here together.” together.”
His eyes, luminous with wisdom, seemed unbearable.
The world had sloughed off the last of the sun, and the shadows pooled like ink. Night stalked the ruined ways of Charaoth.
”And this this is why you suffer so ... When what was here turns away from you, as is why you suffer so ... When what was here turns away from you, as she she has turned away from you, it seems there's nowhere you might stand.” has turned away from you, it seems there's nowhere you might stand.”
A mosquito dared whine through the air about their ears.
”Why are you telling me this?” Achamian cried.
”Because you are not alone.”
Slavery agreed with her.
Even more than Yel or Burulan, Fanas.h.i.+la adored her new station in life. Fussing over her mistress in the mornings, snoozing in the afternoons, then fussing over her mistress again in the evenings. The gold. The perfume. The silk. The cosmetics Lady Esmenet let them use. The intimations of power-great power. The delicacies Lady Esmenet let them taste. Fanas.h.i.+la was fami, fami, one of the original slaves from the Fama Palace in Caraskand. How could the freedom to chase goats compare with this? one of the original slaves from the Fama Palace in Caraskand. How could the freedom to chase goats compare with this?