Part 26 (2/2)

Of course, Opsara cursed them whenever she could, the vicious old hag. ”They're idolaters! Slavers! We must cut their throats, not kiss their toes!” Over and over, and on and on. But then, Opsara had Kianene Kianene blood in her-she was an uftaka-and everyone knew that uftaki were nothing more than menials who strutted like n.o.bles. Their blood in her-she was an uftaka-and everyone knew that uftaki were nothing more than menials who strutted like n.o.bles. Their own kind own kind even despised them. What did that say? even despised them. What did that say?

Besides, for all Opsara's talk, her ward, the infant Moenghus, seemed healthy enough. Fanas.h.i.+la even said as much one night in the slave mess. They had been sitting in their accustomed corner-the one that marked their importance-mildly fingering rice from their bowls while Opsara ranted about killing their Inrithi masters. ”Well,” Fanas.h.i.+la blurted, ”you go first!” How Yel and the others had howled with laughter. Without realizing, Fanas.h.i.+la had found the-way-to-shut-Opsara-up. Now she fairly shook with pride and giggles whenever Opsara started, because she knew her moment would s.h.i.+ne again.

If anything troubled Fanas.h.i.+la, it was the Kneeling, when the overseers gathered her and the others and brought them to the Umbilica's shrine. First a Shrial Priest delivered a sermon-only bits and pieces of which Fanas.h.i.+la could understand-then they were forced to pray aloud to the half-circle of idols. Some were grotesque, like the severed head of Onkis upon a golden tree, others were obscene, like Ajokli with his chin propped upon his phallus, and several were even beautiful, like stern Gilgaol or voluptuous Gierra-though the wide-thrown ankles of the latter made Fanas.h.i.+la blush.

The Shrial Priest called them Aspects of the G.o.d. But Fanas.h.i.+la knew better. They were demons.

But she prayed to them nonetheless, just as she was told. Sometimes, when the overseers were distracted, she would look away from the leering devil before her and search the brocaded panels that regaled the tarp walls for the Two Scimitars of Fane. They were all over, little signs of her people's faith. Then she would silently repeat the words she had heard so many times in Tabernacle.

One for the Unbeliever Unbeliever ... One for the Unseeing ... One for the Unseeing Eye Eye ... ...

This, she decided, had to be enough. What harm could there be in praying to demons, when the Solitary G.o.d commanded all? Besides, the demons listened ... They actually answered their their prayers. Why else would the idolaters be the slavers and the faithful the slaves? prayers. Why else would the idolaters be the slavers and the faithful the slaves?

After evening mess, the overseers herded the women to the Room of Mats, the large tent where they slept across fantastic carpets, which had been looted, the overseers said, from the strongholds of their dead Kianene masters. Some wept at night. Others, particularly those who were beautiful or those who caused trouble, were taken away in the dead of night. Sometimes they returned, sometimes not. But as far as Fanas.h.i.+la was concerned, they brought it on themselves. One need only do do ... It was as simple as that. ... It was as simple as that. Do Do and you would be rewarded, or at the very least left alone. and you would be rewarded, or at the very least left alone.

This was what she reminded herself of the night she was taken away. Everything they told her, she did. That was the rule! They wouldn't make her disappear-not her her! She had washed the feet washed the feet of their Warrior-Prophet ... of their Warrior-Prophet ...

Lady Esmenet would never allow it. Never!

The overseer, Koropos, a former Cironji slave of the Kianene, refused to answer any of her whispered questions. With a firm hand he guided her between the forms sprawled sleeping across the floor, then into the antechamber where the overseers slept and gamed. At first she a.s.sumed that they wanted to bed her. She had seen their evil grins when they watched her-especially that of Tirius, the freed Nansur. They had raped many of the others. But would they dare despoil her? All she had to do was cry to Lady Esmenet and their throats would be cut.

She said as much to Koropos.

”Tell him, him,” the wiry old man snorted. With that, he shoved her through the curtain of hanging whips-the traditional entrance for Inrithi slave quarters-into the cool night air.

A man stood tall and indomitable in the night gloom. Beyond him, the encampment spread dark and labyrinthine across the distances. Because of the anonymous simplicity of his dress-a desert tunic beneath a Cironji chalmys-several heartbeats pa.s.sed before she recognized him ... Lord Werjau of the Nascenti!

She fell to her knees, chin to her breastbone, as she had been trained.

”Look at me,” he said, his tone firm yet gentle. ”Tell me, my sweet, what's this rumour I hear?”

Relief swept through her. Fanas.h.i.+la looked away demurely. She loved gossip. Almost as much as attention. ”Wha-what rumour would that be, my Lord?”

Werjau smiled down at her, stood so perilously near she could smell the sour of his crotch. He brought a callused thumb to her chin. She shuddered as he traced the outline of her lips.

”That they are lovers still,” he said. Though his gaze remained remote, something seemed to ... smirk in his tone.

Fanas.h.i.+la swallowed, afraid once again. ”They?” she asked, blinking tears. ”Who?”

”The Prophet-Consort and the Holy Tutor.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

HOLY AMOTEU.

Of all the Cants, none better ill.u.s.trates the nature of the soul than the Cants of Compulsion. According to Zarathinius, the fact that those compelled unerringly think themselves free shows that Volition is one more thing moved in the soul, and not the mover we take it to be. While few dispute this, the absurdities that follow escape comprehension altogether.

-MEREMNIS, THE ARCANA IMPLICATA

As a miller once told me, when the gears do not meet, they become as teeth. So it is with men and their machinations.

-ONTILLAS, ON THE FOLLY OF MEN

Early Spring, 4112 Year-of-the-Tusk, Amoteu

They had come from the straw-floored manors of Galeoth, where dogs supped with their masters; from the frontier forests of Thunyerus, deep and great, where the Sranc waged their aimless and eternal war; from the mead-halls of Ce Tydonn, where long-haired thanes denounced mongrel races; from the great estates of Conriya, where dark-eyed Palatines made prizes of their pasts; and from the sultry plains of High Ainon, where painted caste-n.o.bles beat paths through teeming streets. Eight seasons previously, the Shriah of the Thousand Temples had called, and they had come ... the Men of the Tusk.

From Gerotha, they continued their march across a subdued land. Word of the Warrior-Prophet's Toll of Days had outrun them, and wherever they pa.s.sed, they found Xeras.h.i.+ prostrate across the red-and-black earth. Hidden granaries were thrown open. Goat-milk, honey, dried peppers, and sugar cane, even entire herds of cattle, were willingly surrendered. Village elders acclaimed them, kissed their sandalled feet, and presented the most fair of their dark-skinned daughters. Anything that might appease the Lords of the Holy War.

The main column, consisting of Hulwarga, Chinjosa, Proyas, and Anfirig, followed the Herotic Way. One by one the coastal strongholds surrendered to them: Sabsal, Moridon, and even h.o.r.eppo, which had been a primary port-of-destination for Inrithi pilgrims in the years preceding the Holy War. More newcomers joined them, seafaring Galeoth-Oswentamen for the most part-driven ash.o.r.e by Kianene marauders. Sweating in their hair s.h.i.+rts, they hauled their barks onto the rocky strands and burned them. They joined their kinsmen about their evening fires, only to be troubled by their strange garb and implacable stares.

Gothyelk, meanwhile, struck directly south to invest the great fortress of Chargiddo, using the intelligence provided by Athjeari to secure his approach. Even here, word of the ma.s.sacre at Gerotha had reached the heathen in advance, and after a largely ceremonial show of defiance, the famed citadel gave herself over to the uncertain mercy of the Tydonni.

Most Holy Prophet, the Earl of Agansanor would write, the Earl of Agansanor would write, Chargiddo has fallen, and with nary a death, save that of my cousin's nephew, who was taken by a stray shaft. Verily, you have boned this land like a fis.h.!.+ Praise be the G.o.d of G.o.ds. Praise be Inri Sejenus, our prophet your brother Chargiddo has fallen, and with nary a death, save that of my cousin's nephew, who was taken by a stray shaft. Verily, you have boned this land like a fis.h.!.+ Praise be the G.o.d of G.o.ds. Praise be Inri Sejenus, our prophet your brother.

With each pa.s.sing day, the sorrows of the long road seemed to fall away, and the Men of the Tusk recalled their old humour. Evenings became celebrations, pious baccha.n.a.ls where toast after toast would be raised to their hallowed Warrior-Prophet. Hundreds of impromptu pilgrimages set out across the lush countryside, and the Xeras.h.i.+ wondered at these idolaters, who continually roamed ground stumped by ruins, arguing over pa.s.sages in their scriptures.

Save for a handful of incidents, there were no atrocities like those that marred their earlier marches. In the Councils of Great and Lesser Names, the Warrior-Prophet made it clear that the Inrithi either kept or betrayed his his word with their actions. ”The Xeras.h.i.+,” he said, ”need not love me to trust me. Just as we need not murder them to demonstrate our hate. Spare them, and their gates will be opened. Kill them, and you kill your brothers.” word with their actions. ”The Xeras.h.i.+,” he said, ”need not love me to trust me. Just as we need not murder them to demonstrate our hate. Spare them, and their gates will be opened. Kill them, and you kill your brothers.”

Though Xerash had been emptied of Kianene, Athjeari found himself sorely pressed in Holy Amoteu. All across the Jarta Highlands, distant streamers of smoke plied the skies as the Fanim hastened to burn any and all structures possessing timber that could be used for siege engines. Taking Mer-Porasas as his base, the brash young Earl ranged to the very edges of the Shairizor Plains, visiting ruin upon the Fanim where he could. But after each encounter he returned with more empty saddles, until very soon his five hundred thanes and knights had dwindled to fewer than two hundred. Though he possessed daring in excess, he lacked the manpower required to secure his position, let alone fence with Fanayal and the heathen army that concentrated about s.h.i.+meh.

His missives to the Warrior-Prophet, which had begun as dispa.s.sionate appraisals of the situation in the field, soon became pleas for a.s.sistance. The Warrior-Prophet begged patience and fort.i.tude, even as he exhorted the Great Names to hasten their march.

The main column climbed into the Jarta Highlands some ten days following the fall of Gerotha-a remarkable pace, given the size of the train, which included the perennially slothful Scarlet Spires, and the fact that they foraged as they marched. Then something peculiar happened.

Accounts of the incident would vary greatly, though all agreed that it involved an encounter between an old man-an old blind blind man-and the Warrior-Prophet. This in itself was extraordinary, since the Hundred Pillars were at great pains to either drive away or, failing that, kill every blind man found in the path of the Sacral Retinue. The nearer the Holy War drew to s.h.i.+meh, the more the Warrior-Prophet's Consort and Intricati feared the possibility of a Cishaurim attack. man-and the Warrior-Prophet. This in itself was extraordinary, since the Hundred Pillars were at great pains to either drive away or, failing that, kill every blind man found in the path of the Sacral Retinue. The nearer the Holy War drew to s.h.i.+meh, the more the Warrior-Prophet's Consort and Intricati feared the possibility of a Cishaurim attack.

Apparently, a blind Xeras.h.i.+ beggar had been overlooked, and as the Sacral Retinue pa.s.sed through the Jartic town of Gim, he cried out to the Warrior-Prophet. In a letter to his father, Prince Nersei Proyas would write the following description: No one understood what he said, though Arishal and the other bodyguards understood the danger well enough. They immediately charged toward the man, only to be brought up short by the resounding crack of the Warrior-Prophet's voice. Everyone stood milling, confused, while the Blessed One regarded the shambling old beggar. The man's skin was almost black, so that his wild hair and beard seemed as white as a Zeumi's teeth. As we watched, quite astonished, the Blessed One dismounted and walked toward the old man-as though he were the penitent! When he towered over the bent figure, he asked, ”Who are you to make demands?” to which the remarkable fool replied, ”One who has something to whisper into your ear.” Cries of alarm erupted among us. No one understood what he said, though Arishal and the other bodyguards understood the danger well enough. They immediately charged toward the man, only to be brought up short by the resounding crack of the Warrior-Prophet's voice. Everyone stood milling, confused, while the Blessed One regarded the shambling old beggar. The man's skin was almost black, so that his wild hair and beard seemed as white as a Zeumi's teeth. As we watched, quite astonished, the Blessed One dismounted and walked toward the old man-as though he were the penitent! When he towered over the bent figure, he asked, ”Who are you to make demands?” to which the remarkable fool replied, ”One who has something to whisper into your ear.” Cries of alarm erupted among us. I know I know I, Father, was concerned to the point of terror. ”And why,” the Blessed One asked, ”must you whisper?” to which the man responded, ”Because my words are the words of my doom. Truthfully, you will kill me after you hear them.” I know I shouted that this was a trick of some kind, some foul Cishaurim deceit, and I know there were many such shouts of apprehension, but the Blessed One did not listen. He even kneeled, Father, to one knee, so that the blind man could better reach his ear. We sat motionless, gutted by horror, while he whispered his doom. And it was his doom, Father! For no sooner had he finished than the Warrior-Prophet drew Enshoiya, his holy sword, and struck the miscreant down, cutting him from his collar to his heart. We had scarcely recovered our breaths when he commanded that the Holy War halt and make camp across the fields of Gim. And to those who dared ask for an explanation, he would say nothing. I, Father, was concerned to the point of terror. ”And why,” the Blessed One asked, ”must you whisper?” to which the man responded, ”Because my words are the words of my doom. Truthfully, you will kill me after you hear them.” I know I shouted that this was a trick of some kind, some foul Cishaurim deceit, and I know there were many such shouts of apprehension, but the Blessed One did not listen. He even kneeled, Father, to one knee, so that the blind man could better reach his ear. We sat motionless, gutted by horror, while he whispered his doom. And it was his doom, Father! For no sooner had he finished than the Warrior-Prophet drew Enshoiya, his holy sword, and struck the miscreant down, cutting him from his collar to his heart. We had scarcely recovered our breaths when he commanded that the Holy War halt and make camp across the fields of Gim. And to those who dared ask for an explanation, he would say nothing.What did the old fool whisper?

There had been a time when he'd walked in glory and horror. Spear-Bearer to mighty Sil, the great King After-the-Fall. He had dared the wrath of Cu'jara Cinmoi on the plains of Pir Pahal. He had ridden the back of Wutteat, Father of Dragons. He had wrestled Ciogli the Mountain-thrown him from his feet! Sarpanur, the Nonmen of Ishriol had called him at first, after the keystone that fixed their crude subterranean arches. And then, following the Womb-Plague, Sin-Pharion, ”the Angel of Deceit.”

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