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Authors: R. Scott Bakker

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BOOK: The Darkness that Comes Before
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The Crown Prince leaned forward and poured himself a bowl of wine. He offered none to Achamian or Xinemus.
“But prayers,” Proyas continued, “are never enough, are they? Something will happen, some treachery or small atrocity, and my heart will cry, ‘Fie on this! Damn them all!’ And do you know what, Achamian? It’s a
possibility
that saves me, that drives me to continue. What if? I ask myself. What
if
this Holy War is in fact divine, a good
in and of itself
?”
His breath hung on these last words, as though no breath could follow them.
What if . . .
“Is that so hard to believe? Is that so impossible—that despite men and their rutting ambitions, this one thing, this Holy War, could be good for its own sake? If it is impossible, Achamian, then my life has as little meaning as yours . . .”
“No,” Achamian said, unable to muzzle his anger, “it’s not impossible.”
The plaintive fury in Proyas’s eyes dulled, became waxy with regret. “I apologize, old tutor. I didn’t mean to . . .” He interrupted himself with another draught of wine. “Perhaps now is not such a good time to peddle your possibilities, Achamian. I fear the God tests me.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
Proyas glanced at Xinemus. A worried look.
“There’s been a massacre of innocents,” he said. “Galeoth troops under Coithus Saubon cut down the inhabitants of an entire village near Pasna.”
Pasna, Achamian recalled, was a town some forty miles up the River Phayus, famed for its olive groves.
“Does Maithanet know?”
Proyas grimaced. “He will.”
Suddenly Achamian understood.
“You defy him,” he said. “Maithanet has forbidden these raids!” Achamian could scarce conceal his jubilation. If Proyas had defied his Shriah . . .
“I like not your manner,” Proyas snapped. “What care you—” He stopped, as though struck by a realization of his own. “Is this the possibility you wish me to consider?” he asked, wonder and fury in his tone. “That Maithanet . . .” A sudden gallows laugh. “That Maithanet conspires with the
Consult
?”
“As I said,” Achamian replied evenly, “a possibility.”
“Achamian, I’ll not insult you. I know the Mandate mission. I know the solitary horror of your nights. You and your kind
live
the myths we put aside with childhood. How can one not respect that? But don’t confuse whatever disagreements I may have regarding Maithanet with the reverence and devotion I bear the Holy Shriah. What you’re saying—the ‘possibility’ you’re asking me to entertain—is blasphemous. Do you understand?”
“Yes. All too well.”
“Do you have
more,
then? More than your nightmares?”
Achamian did have more, more because he had so much less. He had Inrau. He wet his lips. “In Sumna, an agent of ours”—he swallowed—“of mine, has been murdered.”
“An agent assigned, no doubt, to spy on Maithanet . . .” Proyas sighed, then shook his head ruefully, as though resigning himself to blunt and perhaps hurtful words. “Tell me, Achamian, what’s the penalty for spying in the Thousand Temples?”
The sorcerer blinked. “Death.”
“This?”
Proyas exploded. “This is what you bring to me? One of your spies is executed—for
spying!
—and you suspect that
Maithanet
—the greatest Shriah in generations!—conspires with the Consult? These are your grounds? Trust me, Schoolman, when ill fortune befalls a Mandate agent, it need not—”
“There’s more!” Achamian protested.
“Oh, we must hear this! What? Did some drunk whisper some lurid tale?”
“That day in Sumna, when I saw you kiss Maithanet’s knee—”
“Oh yes, by all means, let us speak of
that!
Do you realize the
outrage
—”
“He
saw
me, Proyas! He knew I was a sorcerer!”
This forced a pause, but little else. “And you think I don’t know this? I was
there,
Akka! So he, like other great Shriahs before him, has the gift of seeing the Few. What of it?”
Achamian was dumbstruck.
“What of it?” Proyas repeated. “What does it mean other than that he, unlike
you,
chose the path of righteousness?”
“But—”
“But
what?
”
“The dreams . . . They’ve been so forceful of late.”
“Ah, back to the nightmares again . . .”
“Something is happening, Proyas. I know it. I
feel
it!”
Proyas snorted. “And this brings us to the rub now, doesn’t it Achamian?”
Achamian could only stare in bewilderment. There was something more, something he was forgetting . . . When did he become such an old fool?
“Rub?” he managed to ask. “What rub?”
“The difference between knowing and feeling. Between knowledge and faith.” Proyas caught his bowl and downed it as though punishing the wine. “You know, I remember asking you about the God once, many years ago. Do you remember what you said?”
Achamian shook his head.
“‘I’ve heard many rumours,’ you said, ‘but I’ve never met the man.’ Do you remember? Do you remember how I capered and laughed?”
Achamian nodded, smiled wanly. “You repeated it incessantly for weeks. Your mother was furious. I would’ve been dismissed had not Zin—”
“Always your accursed advocate, that Xinemus,” Proyas said, grinning at the Marshal. “You do know you’d be friendless without him?”
A sudden pang in Achamian’s throat made it impossible to reply. He blinked at burning eyes.
No . . . Please, not here.
The Marshal and the Prince both stared at him, their expressions at once embarrassed and concerned.
“Anyway,” Proyas continued hesitantly, “my point is this: What you said of my God, you must say of your Consult as well. All you have are rumours, Achamian. Faith. You know nothing of what you speak.”
“What are you saying?”
His voice hardened. “Faith is the truth of passion, Achamian, and no passion is more true than another. And that means there’s no possibility you could speak that I could consider, no fear you could summon that could be more true than my adoration. There can be no discourse between us.”
“Then I apologize . . . We’ll speak of this no more! I didn’t mean to offend—”
“I knew this would pain you,” Proyas interrupted, “but it must be said. You’re a
blasphemer,
Achamian. Unclean. Your very presence is a trespass against
Him
. An outrage. And as much as I once loved you, I love my God more. Far more.”
Xinemus could bear no more. “But surely—”
Proyas silenced the Marshal with an upraised hand. His eyes reflected fervour and fire. “Zin’s soul is his own. He can do with it what he will. But, Achamian, you must respect me on this: I don’t want to see you again. Ever. Do you understand?”
No.
Achamian looked first to Xinemus, then back to Nersei Proyas.
It doesn’t need to be like this . . .
“So be it,” he said.
He stood abruptly, straining to stiffen the hurt from his face. The fire-warm folds of his robe burned where they pressed against his skin. “I ask only one thing,” he said brusquely. “You know Maithanet. Perhaps you alone he trusts. Simply ask him about a young priest, Paro Inrau, who plunged to his death in the Hagerna several weeks ago. Ask him if his people had him killed. Ask him if they knew the boy was a spy.”
Proyas stared at him with the vacancy of one preparing to hate. “Why would I do such a thing, Achamian?”
“Because you loved me once.”
Without a word, Drusas Achamian turned and left the two Inrithi noblemen sitting mute by the fire.
Outside, the night air was humid with unwashed thousands. The Holy War.
Dead,
Achamian thought.
My students are all dead.
 
“You disapprove,” Proyas said to the Marshal. “What is it this time? The tactics or the proprieties?”
“Both,” Xinemus coolly replied.
“I see.”
“Ask yourself, Proyas—for once set scripture aside and truly
ask
yourself—whether the feeling within your breast—now, at this very moment—is wicked or righteous.”
Earnest pause.
“But I feel nothing.”
 
That night Achamian dreamed of Esmenet, lithe and wild upon him, and then of Inrau crying out from the Great Black:
“They’re here, old teacher! In ways you cannot see!”
But inevitably, the other dreams stirred beneath, the hoary nightmare that always reared its dreadful frame, shrugging away the tissue of lesser, more recent longings. And then Achamian found himself on the Fields of Eleneöt, dragging the broken body of a great High King from the clamour of war.
Celmomas’s blue eyes beseeched him. “Leave me,” the grey-bearded king gasped.
“No . . . If you die, Celmomas, all is lost.”
But the High King smiled through ruined lips. “Do you see the sun? Do you see it flare, Seswatha?”
“The sun sets,” Achamian replied, tears now spilling across his cheeks.
“Yes! Yes . . . The darkness of the No-God is not all-encompassing. The Gods see us yet, dear friend. They are distant, but I can hear them galloping across the skies. I can hear them cry out to me.”
“You cannot die, Celmomas! You must not die!”
The High King shook his head, tears streaming from curiously tender eyes. “They call to me. They say my end is not the world’s end. That burden, they say, is yours . . . Yours, Seswatha.”
“No,” Achamian whispered.
“The sun! Can you see the sun? Feel it upon your cheek? Such revelations are hidden in such simple things. I see! I see so clearly what a bitter, stubborn fool I have been . . . And to you, you most of all, have I been unjust. Can you forgive an old man? Can you forgive a foolish old man?”
“There is nothing to forgive, Celmomas. You’ve lost much, suffered much.”
“My son . . . Do you think he’ll be there, Seswatha? Do you think he’ll greet me as his father?”
“Yes. As his father and as his king.”
“Did I ever tell you,” Celmomas said, his voice cracking with heartbroken pride, “that my son once stole into the deepest pits of Golgotterath?”
“Yes.” Achamian smiled through his tears. “Many times, old friend.”
“How I miss him, Seswatha! How I yearn to stand at his side once again.”
The old king wept for a moment, then his eyes grew wide. “I
see
him so clearly. He’s taken the sun as his charger, and he rides among us. I see him! Galloping through the hearts of my people, stirring them to wonder and fury!”
“Shush . . . Conserve your strength, my King. The surgeons are coming.”
BOOK: The Darkness that Comes Before
13.5Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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