Part 48 (1/2)

”But I see it within you. I see ... the truth of you. I see your love.”

”I hate!” he screamed, so loud that the halls returned the words to them as a thousand whispers. he screamed, so loud that the halls returned the words to them as a thousand whispers.

Though blind, Moenghus somehow managed to look to the ground in pensive pity. ”So many years,” he said. ”So many seasons ... Everything I showed you has scarred your heart, set you apart from the People. Now you hold me accountable for what I taught.”

”Desecration! Deceit!” Spittle burned his unshaven chin.

”Then why does it torment you so? Surely lies, when uncovered, fade like smoke. It is truth truth that burns, Nayu-as you know ... for you have burned in it for uncounted seasons.” that burns, Nayu-as you know ... for you have burned in it for uncounted seasons.”

Suddenly Cnaiur could feel it: the miles of earth heaped above them, the clawing inversion of ground ground. He had come too far. He had crawled too deep.

The sword dropped from the stranger's senseless fingers, rang like something pathetic across the floor. His face broke, like a thing wrapped about twitching vermin. The sobs whispered across the pitted stone.

And Moenghus was holding him, enclosing him, healing his innumerable scars.

”Nayu ...”

He loved him ... this man who had shown shown him, who had led onto the trackless steppe. him, who had led onto the trackless steppe.

”I am dying, Nayu.” Hot whispers in his ear. Hot whispers in his ear. ”I need your strength ...” ”I need your strength ...”

Abandoned him. Forsook.

He had loved only him. In all the world ...

Weeping f.a.ggot!

The kiss was deep; the smell strong. His heart hammered. Shame bled from his every pore, skittered across his trembling limbs, and somehow ignited an even deeper ardour.

He breathed shuddering air into Moenghus's hot mouth. The snakes twisted through his hair, pressed hard and phallic against his temples. Cnaiur groaned.

So unlike Serwe or Anissi. A wrestler's clasp, firm and unyielding. The promise of surrender, of shelter in stronger arms.

He reached beneath his girdle, into his breeches ...

His eyes leaden with ardour, he murmured, ”I wander trackless ground.”

Moenghus gasped, jerked, and spasmed as Cnaiur rolled the Chorae across his cheek. White light flared from his gouged sockets. For an instant, Cnaiur thought, it seemed the G.o.d watched him through a man's skull.

What do you see?

But then his lover fell away, burning as he must, such was the force of what had possessed them.

”Not again!” Cnaiur howled at the sagging form. He stumbled to his knees, weeping, raving. ”How could you leave me?”

His screech pealed through the derelict halls, filled the very earth.

And he laughed, thinking of the final swazond he would cut into his throat. One last thought too many ... See! See! See! See!

He cackled with grief.

He knelt over his lover's corpse-for how many heartbeats, he would never know. Then, just as the sorcerous light began to fade, a cool hand fell upon his cheek. He turned and saw Serwe ... For an instant her face cracked, as though gasping for air. But then it was seamless once again. Seamless and perfect.

Yes. Serwe ... The first wife of his heart.

His proof and prize.

Absolute darkness engulfed them.

The walls of flame that fenced the great swath of destruction wrought by the Scarlet Spires crawled outward, leaving smoking husks in their wake. But somehow, miraculously, the ancient fullery, with its open galleries and queued basins, had escaped unscathed. Kneeling on the lip of its southern pediment, Proyas had seen it all, as though from the edge of a mighty cliff.

The destruction of the Scarlet Spires.

The drums of the heathen had replaced the unearthly thrum of incantations. Even now the last of the Cishaurim-he could see only five-floated over the charred and derelict landscape, the asps about their necks hooked downward, searching for survivors. Every several heartbeats, brilliance fell from them and crackling booms rifled through the darkling sky.

He knew not what it meant. He knew nothing ...

Save that this was s.h.i.+meh.

He turned his face skyward. Through the haze he glimpsed the first vestiges of blue, a rim of gold about fleecy black.

There was a flash, a sparkle in the corner of his eye. He looked to the Sacred Heights, saw a point of light hanging above the eaves of the First Temple. The point lingered, painting the slate s.h.i.+ngles of the dome white, then it burst, so bright that it struck circles across the firmament. Like sails cut from the mast, great sheets of smoke bloomed outward, swept over the hanging Cishaurim and out across the devastation.

And Proyas saw a figure figure standing where the light had been, so distant he could scarce make out his features, save that his hair was gold and his gown billowed white. standing where the light had been, so distant he could scarce make out his features, save that his hair was gold and his gown billowed white.

Kellhus!

The Warrior-Prophet.

Proyas blinked. s.h.i.+vers splashed across his skin.

The figure leapt from the Temple's edge, soared over the astonished Fanim manning the Heterine Wall, then down the slopes, through the rim of burning buildings. Even from so far, Proyas could hear his world-reaming song.

As one, the scattered Cishaurim turned. With eyes like twin Nails of Heaven, the Warrior-Prophet walked across the heights toward them. With every step, it seemed, debris flew from the ground toward him, where it was drawn into circling loops, one after another, smaller circles bisecting the orbits of those larger, until rings of spinning ruin fairly obscured him.