Part 36 (2/2)

Achamian recalled that first meeting outside Momemn, the Scylvendi standing proud and savage before Proyas, while Kellhus had held Serwe amid Xinemus's knights. He hadn't believed Cnaiur then, but the revelation of Kellhus and his name, Anasurimbor, Anasurimbor, had overturned all his suspicions. What was it Kellhus had said? That the Scylvendi had accepted his wager? Yes, and that he had dreamed of the Holy War from afar ... had overturned all his suspicions. What was it Kellhus had said? That the Scylvendi had accepted his wager? Yes, and that he had dreamed of the Holy War from afar ...

”What you told us,” Achamian said, glimpsing the sheen of teeth, ”that first day with Proyas ... you lied.”

”I lied.”

”And Kellhus?” For some reason, asking this made his throat ache.

A pause. ”Tell me where he went.”

”No,” Achamian said. ”You promised me Truth...I will not barter untested wares.”

The barbarian snorted, but it didn't strike Achamian as an expression of derision or contempt. There was a pensiveness to the man, a vulnerability of movement and manner that contradicted the violence of his aspect. Somehow Achamian knew that Cnaiur wanted wanted to speak of these things, as though they burdened him in the way of crimes or powerful grievances. And this realization terrified him more thoroughly than any Trinket ever could. to speak of these things, as though they burdened him in the way of crimes or powerful grievances. And this realization terrified him more thoroughly than any Trinket ever could.

”You think Kellhus was sent,” the Scylvendi said in a hollow voice, ”when he was summoned summoned. You think he is unique, when he is but one of a number. You think he is a saviour, when he is nothing more than a slaver.”

These statements clawed all blood and sensation from Achamian's face.

”I don't understand-”

”Then listen listen! For thousands of years they have hidden in the mountains, isolated from the world. For thousands of years they have bred, allowing only the quickest of their children to live. They say you know the pa.s.sing of ages better than any, sorcerer, so think on it! Thousands of years Thousands of years ... Until we, the natural sons of true fathers, have become little more than children to them.” ... Until we, the natural sons of true fathers, have become little more than children to them.”

What followed was too ... naked not to be true. The two shadows sitting behind him did not move while he talked, not by the slightest measure. The Scylvendi's voice was harsh, marred by the guttural cadences of his mother tongue, but he spoke with an eloquence that gave the lie to the severity of his race. He told the story of a boy just outgrowing his native fragility, who found himself captured by the words of a mysterious slave, and led across trackless expanses between sane acts and upright men.

A story of patricide.

”I was his accomplice,” the Scylvendi said. Toward the end of his story he had slouched in thought, speaking more and more to his palms, as though each word were a pebble added to a back-breaking load. Suddenly he raised his fists to his temples. ”I was his accomplice, but I was not willing but I was not willing!”

He lowered his forearms to his knees, held his fists out, as though snapping a bone.

”They see our thoughts through our faces-our hurts, our hopes, our rage, and our pa.s.sion! Where we guess, they know, know, the way herdsmen can read the afternoon's weather in the morning sky ... And what men know, men dominate.” the way herdsmen can read the afternoon's weather in the morning sky ... And what men know, men dominate.”

Somehow it seemed a shaft of light had found his face, so bright was the anguish in his voice. Achamian could hear his tears, his sneering grimace.

”He chose me. He raised me up, and he shaped me, the way women shape flints to sc.r.a.pe their hides. He used me to kill my father. He used me to secure his escape. He used me ...”

The shadow crossed his fists over his bull chest.

”Shame! Wutrim kut mi'puru kamuir Wutrim kut mi'puru kamuir! I could not stop thinking! I could not stop thinking! I laid eyes upon my degradation, I understood understood, and I stamped my heart with that understanding!”

Without realizing, Achamian wrung finger against finger, joint against joint. There was the Scylvendi's shadow and the pit that was his Chorae. Nothing else existed.

”He was intellect ... He was war! That He was war! That is what they are! Do you not see? With every heartbeat they war against circ.u.mstance, with every breath they conquer! They walk among us as we walk among dogs, and we yowl when they throw out sc.r.a.ps, we whine and whimper when they raise their hands ... is what they are! Do you not see? With every heartbeat they war against circ.u.mstance, with every breath they conquer! They walk among us as we walk among dogs, and we yowl when they throw out sc.r.a.ps, we whine and whimper when they raise their hands ...

”They make us love! They make us love!”

Vast was the night. Great was the ground.

And yet they yielded. They yielded.

Step-step-leap. Incantations of s.p.a.ce. World crossing world.

The hares darted from his path. The thrushes burst from his feet, hurtling into the stars. The jackals raced at his side, their tongues lolling, their loping limbs tiring.

”Who are you?” they panted as their hearts failed them.

”Your master!” cried the G.o.dlike man as he outdistanced them. And though humour was unknown to him, he laughed. He laughed until the sky shook.

Your master.

How could a heart hold such outrage?

The sorcerer rocked back and forth in the candlelight, to and fro, muttering, muttering ...

”Back-back ... m-must start at beginning ...”

But he could not-no, not yet. Never had he been party to such an exchange. Never had such words been thrown upon the balance of his heart.

He knew the Scylvendi meant to kill him, him, his final, greatest student. He knew what the two shadows behind the barbarian had been. As they exited his tent, he had seen his final, greatest student. He knew what the two shadows behind the barbarian had been. As they exited his tent, he had seen her her face in a shaft of moonlight, as perfect as that night it had swayed and moaned above face in a shaft of moonlight, as perfect as that night it had swayed and moaned above him him. Serwe ...

You gave him up. The Warrior-Prophet ... You told the barbarian where he goes!

Because he lies! He steals what is ours! What is mine!

But the world! The world!

Fie on the world! Let it burn!

”The beginning!” he cried. Please Please.

Before him, spread across his silk bedding, were sheaves of parchment. He dipped his quill in his inkhorn, murmuring, murmuring ... Quickly he wrote all the names of all the factions that had so bedevilled him, redrawing the map that had burned in the Sareotic Library.

He paused over, INRAU.

searching for the memory of his sorrow, struck by remembrances that no longer mattered-or so it seemed. And he shuddered so violently at writing, THE CONSULT THE CONSULT.

he was forced to set his quill down and hold his arms tight to his chest.

You gave him up!

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