Part 30 (1/2)
How many secrets could it see? How much did it know?
”Such a marvel,” she said, ”what you've accomplished ... So much stolen stolen.”
It spoke as though knowing much warranted knowing all. It tries to lure me, draw me into open discourse me, draw me into open discourse.
”My father has been here thirty years.”
”Long enough to require a Holy War to overcome him?”
”Long enough.”
She smiled, drew two fingers across her sweaty breastbone. Though her body remained young, her eyes possessed an age not her own. ”Again,” she simpered, ”I don't believe you ... You are your father's heir, heir, not his a.s.sa.s.sin.” not his a.s.sa.s.sin.”
And the air reeked of sorcery.
Her hands found him through his robe, began fondling ... Kellhus stood bewildered. He wanted to seize her, thrust deep into her burning centre. He would show her! Show her!
His robe had been hiked-and by his own hand! The cool of her palms whisked across and against his flame.
”Tell meeee,” she moaned again and again, and though Kellhus knew these to be her words, he found himself hearing, Take me Take me ... ...
He lifted her with ease, spread her across the settee. He would pin her to the deep! He would plunge and hammer until she howled for release!
Who is your father? a voice whispered. a voice whispered.
Still her hands milked him. Never had he suffered anything so sweet. Clutching her legs by the crotch of her knees, he pressed them out and back, bared her moist beauty. The world roared.
Tell me ...
With deft fingers she drew him across her slick fire.
What was happening? How could lightning be sparked in the brush of greased skin? How could moans, exhaled through the lips of a woman, sound so beautiful?
Who is Moenghus? the voice persisted. the voice persisted. What is his intent? What is his intent?
Kellhus pressed through the fiery veil, into her arching cry ...
”To make manifest,” he heard himself gasp, he heard himself gasp, ”the Thousandfold ”the Thousandfold Thought ... Thought ...
For a heartbeat the world stopped. He saw it, it, old and h.o.a.ry and rotted, staring out from his wife's eyes. The Inchoroi ... old and h.o.a.ry and rotted, staring out from his wife's eyes. The Inchoroi ...
Sorcery!
The Ward was simple-one of the first Achamian had taught him-an ancient Kuniuric Dara, proof against what were called incipient sorceries. His words racked the sultry air. For a moment the light of his eyes shone across her skin.
The darkness faltered and the shadow fell from his soul. He staggered back two steps, his phallus wet and chill and hard. She laughed as he covered himself, her voice guttural with inhuman intonations.
Bait it.
”Across the world in Golgotterath,” Kellhus gasped, still stamping out the coals of his manic l.u.s.t, ”the Mangaecca squat about your true flesh, rocking to the mutter of endless Cants. The Synthese is but a node. You are no more than the reflection of a shadow, an image cast upon the water of Esmenet. You possess subtlety, yes, but you haven't the depth to confront me.”
Achamian had told him of this creature, that its capacities would be largely restricted to glamours, compulsions, and possessions. The great shout that was its true form, the Schoolman had said, could be heard only as whispers and insinuations at such a distance. I must own this encounter! I must own this encounter!
”Come,” she said, springing to her feet, stalking him as he retreated across the verandah, ”kill me, then. Strike me down!”
A mask of counterfeit horror. Once again Kellhus unlaced the bindings of selfhood, rolled open the inner surfaces of his soul. Once again he reached ...
The past possessed weight. Where the young were like flotsam, forever drawn spinning into the current of pa.s.sing events, the old were like stone. The proverbs and parables spoke of sobriety, restraint, but more than anything it was boredom boredom that rendered the aged immune to the press of events. Repet.i.tion, not enlightenment, was the secret of their detachment. How did one move a soul that had witnessed all the world's permutations? that rendered the aged immune to the press of events. Repet.i.tion, not enlightenment, was the secret of their detachment. How did one move a soul that had witnessed all the world's permutations?
”But you can't, can't, she cackled, ”can you? Look upon this pretty sh.e.l.l ... these lips, these eyes, this cunny. I am what you love love ...” ...”
What was more, the Scylvendi had schooled it. The non sequiturs. The sudden questions. The thing had made whim whim the principle of its action-just as Cnaiur had ... the principle of its action-just as Cnaiur had ...
Kellhus reached.
”After all,” she said, ”what man would strike down his wife?”
He drew his sword, Enshoiya, pressed its point against the white tile floor between them. ”A Dunyain,” he replied.
She stopped above the blade, close enough to pinch the tip between the toes of her right foot. She glared with ancient fury. ”I am Aurang. Tyranny! A son of the void you call Heaven...I am Inchoroi, a raper of thousands thousands! I am he who would tear this world down. Strike, Anasurimbor!”
Kellhus reached ...
... and saw himself through the obscenity's eyes, the enigma who would draw out his father, Moenghus. Kellhus reached, though with fingers lacking tips, palms without heat. He reached and he grasped ...
A soul that had snaked across all the world's ages, taking lover after lover, exulting in degradation, spilling seed across innumerable dead. The Nonmen of Ishoriol. The Norsirai of Tryse and Sauglish. Warring, endlessly warring, to forestall d.a.m.nation ...
A race with a hundred names for the vagaries of e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, who had silenced all compa.s.sion, all pity, to better savour the reckless chorus of their l.u.s.ts. Stalking, endlessly stalking, the world they would make their shrieking harem ...
A life so old that only he, he, Anasurimbor Kellhus, was unprecedented. Only the Dunyain were new. Anasurimbor Kellhus, was unprecedented. Only the Dunyain were new.
Who were these Men-these Anasurimbor!-who hailed from Golgotterath's very shadow? who could see through masks of skin? who could subvert ancient faiths? who could enslave Holy Wars with nothing more than words and glances?
Who bore the name of their ancient foe ...
And Kellhus realized there was only one question here: Who were the Dunyain?
They fear us, Father.
”Strike!” Esmenet cried, her arms back, her s.h.i.+ning b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed forward.
And he did did strike, though with the flat of his palm. Esmenet sailed backward, rolled nude across the tiles. strike, though with the flat of his palm. Esmenet sailed backward, rolled nude across the tiles.
”The No-G.o.d,” he said, advancing, ”he speaks to me in my dreams.”
”I,” Esmenet replied, spitting blood as she pressed herself from the floor, ”don't believe you.”