Part 36 (1/2)

He should be awake ...

The pealing roar, screams upon screams, wailing across heights of alien gold, reverberating through bones and heart, reverberating, reverberating ...

Nau-Cayuti slumped to his knees. ”What is this?” More of a breath than a whisper.

He turned to his teacher, his pupils ringed by crazed white. ”Th-this?” ”Th-this?” Spoken like a bereaved child. Spoken like a bereaved child.

Awake!

Seswatha felt himself hoisted and thrown back into shadow. Something cracked his skull, and murk encompa.s.sed everything until he could see only his beloved student's anguish-his lunatic hurt!

”Where is she? Whe-”

Awake, you fool!

With a gasp Achamian clawed his way to consciousness. s.h.i.+meh! s.h.i.+meh! he thought. he thought. s.h.i.+meh! s.h.i.+meh! There was a shadow above him, framed by the whining ring of his unanswered Wards. And there was a great and crus.h.i.+ng absence, swinging in small circles from the end of a leather string. A Trinket, hanging the breadth of a finger above his breast ... There was a shadow above him, framed by the whining ring of his unanswered Wards. And there was a great and crus.h.i.+ng absence, swinging in small circles from the end of a leather string. A Trinket, hanging the breadth of a finger above his breast ...

”Some time ago,” the Scylvendi grated, ”during all the empty hours thinking, I understood that you die as I do ...” A tremor pa.s.sed through the hand holding the string.

”Without G.o.ds.”

Even from this distance, Eleazaras could see the faint glow of lights spilling from the Ctesarat Tabernacle upon the Sacred Heights. He sat with Iyokus beneath the open canopy that flared from the south face of his pavilion. Circles of blood had been painted across the flattened gra.s.ses. Tomorrow they would at last engage their mortal enemy, and though the meaning of that engagement now escaped him, he would see it through.

Which meant he would use every weapon at his disposal-no matter how wicked.

”The Cishaurim flee,” Iyokus said, his mouth aglow with the Diamotic Communion. ”As we suspected, they have no Chorae upon the Juterum. But they call ... they call.”

The Snakeheads had no choice. They would disperse their Trinkets to guard against further incursions by Ciphrang, which meant that tomorrow his brother Schoolmen would face fewer in their initial a.s.sault.

Eleazaras leaned forward. ”We shouldn't have used a Potent when a Debile would have suited our purposes just the same. And especially not not Zioz! You told me yourself he was becoming dangerous.” Zioz! You told me yourself he was becoming dangerous.”

”All is well, Eli.”

”You grow reckless ...”

Have I become such a coward?

Iyokus turned to him. Blood soiled his bandages where they pressed against his translucent cheeks.

”They must fear us,” the man said. ”Now they do.”

The bizarre terror of awakening to a mortal threat: a pang wrapped round with a sluggish incredulity, as though something deep believed he still slept. Like a knife probing wool.

”Scylvendi!” Achamian gasped. It seemed he mouthed ice more than sound. The stink of the man filled the cramped confines of his tent, a smell somewhere between horse and dog.

”Where,” the voice growled from the darkness, the voice growled from the darkness, ”is he?” ”is he?”

Achamian knew he referred to Kellhus, either because of the intensity with which he said ”he” or perhaps because he could scarcely think of anyone else himself. But then, all men searched for Kellhus, even those who knew him not.

”I don't-”

”Lies! You are always with him. You are his protector-I know this!” You are always with him. You are his protector-I know this!”

”Please ...” he gasped, tried to cough without raising his chest. The Chorae had become unbearable. It seemed his heart might crack his sternum, leap into its absence. He could feel the stinging of his skin about his right nipple, the beginnings of the Salt. He thought of Carythusal, of Geshrunni, now long dead, holding a Trinket above his hand in the Holy Leper. Strange how this one seemed to have a different ... ...” he gasped, tried to cough without raising his chest. The Chorae had become unbearable. It seemed his heart might crack his sternum, leap into its absence. He could feel the stinging of his skin about his right nipple, the beginnings of the Salt. He thought of Carythusal, of Geshrunni, now long dead, holding a Trinket above his hand in the Holy Leper. Strange how this one seemed to have a different ... taste taste.

I was never meant to escape.

The shadow hunched over him in fury, seemed to growl. Though he could see no more than the man's outline limned in the faintest moonlight, Achamian saw him clearly in his soul's eye: the strapped arms, the neck-breaking hands, the face rutted by murderous wrath.

”I will not ask again.”

What was happening here? Don't panic, old fool Don't panic, old fool.

”You think,” Achamian managed, ”I would betray his his trust, Scylvendi? You think I value my life trust, Scylvendi? You think I value my life over his over his?” Desperation, not conviction, had animated these words, for he did not believe them. Even still, they seemed to give the Scylvendi pause.

A moment of brooding dark, then the barbarian said, ”I will trade, then ... barter.”

Why the sudden reversal? And the man's voice ... had it actually quavered? The barbarian yanked the Chorae into his palm, like a child with a well-practised toy. Achamian fairly cried out in relief. For a moment he lay panting, still terrified and utterly dumbfounded. The shadow watched, motionless.

”Trade?” Achamian exclaimed. For the first time he noticed the two figures sitting behind the barbarian, though the gloom was such that he could tell only that one was a woman and the other a man. ”Trade what what?”

”Truth.”

This word, intoned as it was with exhaustion and a profound, barbaric candour, struck him like a blow. Achamian pressed himself onto his elbows, glared at the man, his eyes wild with outrage and confusion.

”And what if I've had my fill of Truth?”

”The truth of him, him,” the Scylvendi said.

Achamian peered at the man, squinted as if into the distance, even though he loomed so very near. ”I already know that truth,” he said numbly. ”He's come to-”

”You know nothing nothing!” the barbarian snarled. ”Nothing! Only what he has let you know.” He spat in the corner next to Achamian's uncovered feet, wiped his lips with the hand holding his Chorae. ”The same as all his slaves.”

”I'm no sla-”

”But you are! In his presence all men are slaves, all men are slaves, sorcerer.” With the Chorae clutched tight in his fist, the Scylvendi leaned back to sit cross-legged. ”He is sorcerer.” With the Chorae clutched tight in his fist, the Scylvendi leaned back to sit cross-legged. ”He is Dunyain Dunyain.”

Never had Achamian heard such shaking hate in a word, and the world was filled with such epithets: Scylvendi, Consult, Fanim, Cishaurim, Mog-Pharau ... It sometimes seemed there were as many hatreds as there were names.

”That word,” Achamian said carefully, ”'Dunyain' ... it simply means 'truth' in a dead tongue.”

”The tongue is not dead,” Cnaiur snapped, ”and the word no longer means 'truth.'”