The Warrior Prophet (20 page)

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Authors: R. Scott Bakker

BOOK: The Warrior Prophet
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Though mercenary, Saubon did possess a kind of practical piety. For him faith was a game—a very serious game. Where other men begged and called it “prayer,” he negotiated, haggled. By coming here, he thought he was giving the Gods their due …
He’s terrified of making a mistake. The Whore has given him but one chance.
“I need to know what you see!” the man cried. “I’ve fought many campaigns—all of them for my wretched father! I’m no fool when it comes to the field of war. I don’t think I’d march into a Fanim tra—”
“But recall what Cnaiür said at Council,” Kellhus interrupted. “The Fanim fight from horseback. They’d bring the trap to you. And remember the Cishaur—”
“Pfah! My nephew scouts Gedea as we speak, sends me messages daily. There’s no Fanim host lurking in the shadow of these mountains. These skirmishers that Proyas chases are meant to fool us, delay us while the heathen gathers his might. Skauras is canny enough to know when he’s overmatched. He’s retreated to Shigek, barricaded himself in his cities on the Sempis, where he awaits the Padirajah and the Grandees of Kian. He’s ceded Gedea to whoever has the courage to seize it!”
The Galeoth Prince clearly believed what he said, but could he
be
believed? His argument seemed sober enough. And Proyas himself had expressed nothing but respect for the man’s martial acumen. Saubon had even fought Ikurei Conphas to a standstill just a few years previous …
Cataracts of possibility. There was opportunity here … And perhaps Sarcellus need not be confronted to be destroyed. But still.
I know so little of war. Too little …
“So you
hope
.” Kellhus said. “Skauras could—”
“So I know!”
“Then what does it matter, whether I sanction you or not? Truth is truth, regardless of who speaks it …”
Desperation. “I ask only for your counsel, for what you see … Nothing more.”
Slackness about the eyes. Shortness of breath. Deadened timbre.
Another lie
.
“But I see many things …” Kellhus said.
“Then tell me!”
Kellhus shook his head. “Only rarely do I glimpse the future. The hearts of men …
that
is what they …” He paused, glanced nervously down the sheer drop, to the bleach-bone trees scattered and broken below. “That is what I’m moved to see.”
Saubon had become guarded. “Then tell me … What do you see in
my
heart?”
Expose him. Strip him of every lie, every pretense. When the shame passes …
Kellhus held the man’s eyes for a forlorn instant.
… he will think it proper to stand naked before me.
“A man and a child,” Kellhus said, weaving deeper harmonics into his voice, transforming it into something palpable. “I see a man and a child … The man is harrowed by the distance between the trappings of power and the impotence of his birthright. He would force what fate has denied him, and so, day by day lives in the midst of what he does not possess.
Avarice,
Saubon … Not for gold, but for
witness
. Greed for the testimony of men—for them to look and say ‘
Here,
here is a King by his own hand!’”
Kellhus stared into the giddy void at his feet, his eyes glassy with the tumult of inner mysteries …
Saubon watched with horror. “And the child? You said there was a child!”
“Cringes still beneath a father’s hand. Awakens in the night and cries out, not for witness, but to be
known
… No one knows him. No one loves.”
Kellhus turned to him, his eyes shining with insight and unearthly compassion. “I could go on …”
“No-no,” Saubon stammered, as though waking from a trance. “Cease. That’s enough …”
But what was enough? Saubon yearned for pretexts; what would he give in return? When the variables were so many, everything was risk. Everything.
What if I choose wrong, Father?
“Did you hear that?” Kellhus cried, turning to Saubon in sudden terror.
The Galeoth Prince jumped back from the cliff’s edge. “Hear what?”
Truth begat truth, even when it was a lie.
Kellhus swayed, staggered. Saubon leapt forward, pulled him from the long fall.
“March,”
Kellhus gasped, close enough to kiss. “The Whore
will
be kind to you … But you must make certain the Shrial Knights are …” He opened his eyes in stunned wonder—as though to say,
This couldn’t be their message!
Some destinations couldn’t be grasped in advance. Some paths had to be walked to be known. Risked.
“You must make certain the Shrial Knights are
punished
.”
 
With Kellhus and Saubon gone, Esmenet sat silently, staring into the fire, studying the mosaic image of the Latter Prophet reaching out beneath their feet. She pulled her toes from the circle of a haloed hand. It seemed sacrilege that they should trod upon him …
But then what did she care? She was damned. Never had that seemed more obvious than now.
Sarcellus here!
Affliction upon affliction. Why did the Gods hate her so? Why were they so cruel?
Resplendent in his silvered mail and white surcoat, Sarcellus chatted amiably with Serwë about Kellhus, asking where he came from, how they first met, and so on. Serwë basked in his attention; it was plain from her answers that she more than adored the Prince of Atrithau. She spoke as though she didn’t exist outside her bond to him. Achamian watched, though for some reason it seemed he didn’t listen.
Oh, Akka … Why do I know I’m going to lose you?
Not fear,
know
. Such was the cruelty of this world!
Murmuring excuses, Esmenet stood, then with slow, measured steps, fled from the fire.
Enfolded by darkness, she stopped, plopped down on the ruined stump of a pillar. The sounds of Saubon’s men permeated the night: the rhythmic thwack of axes, deep-throated shouts, ribald laughter. Beneath the dark trees, warhorses snorted, stamped the earth.
What have I done? What if Akka finds out?
Looking back the way she’d come, she was shocked to discover she could still see Achamian, dusty orange before the fire. She smiled at the hapless look of him, at the five white streaks of his beard. He seemed to be talking to Serwë …
Where had Sarcellus gone?
“It must be difficult being a woman in such a place,” a voice called from behind her.
Esmenet jumped to her feet and whirled, her heart racing both with dismay and alarm. She saw Sarcellus strolling toward her. Of course …
“So many pigs,” he continued, “and only one trough.”
Esmenet swallowed, stood rigid. She made no reply.
“I’ve seen you before too,” he said, playing games with their pretense about the fire. “Haven’t I?” He waved a mocking finger.
Deep breath. “No. I’m sure you haven’t.”
“But yes … Yes! You’re a … harlot.” He smiled winningly. “A
whore
.”
Esmenet glanced around. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sorcerers and whores … It seems oddly appropriate, I suppose. With so many men licking your crotch, I imagine it serves to keep one with a magic tongue.”
She struck him, or tried to. Somehow he caught her hand.
“Sarcellus,” she whispered. “Sarcellus, please …”
She felt a fingertip trace an impossible line along her inner thigh.
“Like I said,” he muttered in a tone her body recognized. “One trough.”
She glanced back toward the fire, saw Achamian peering after her with a frown. Of course he could see only blackness, such was the treachery of fire, which illuminated small circles by darkening the entire world. But what Achamian could or could not see did not matter.
“
No,
Sarcellus,” she hissed. “Not …”
… here
“… while I live. Do you understand?”
She could feel the heat of him.
No-no-no-no …
A different, more resonant voice called out. “Is there a problem?” Whirling, she saw Prince Kellhus stride from the shadows of the nearby grove.
“N-no. Nothing,” Esmenet gasped, stunned to find her arm free. “Lord Sarcellus startled me, nothing more.”
“She spooks easily,” Sarcellus said. “But then most women do.”
“You think so?” Kellhus replied, approaching until even Sarcellus had to look up. Kellhus stared at the man, his manner mild, even bemused, but there was an implacable constancy to his look that made Esmenet’s heart race, that urged her limbs to run. Had he been listening? Had he heard?
“Perhaps you’re right,” Sarcellus said in an offhand manner. “Most men spook easy too.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Something clawed at Esmenet to fill it, but she could find no breath to speak.
“I’ll leave you two, then,” Sarcellus declared. With a shallow bow, he turned and strode back to the fire.
Alone with Kellhus, Esmenet sighed in relief. The hands that had throttled her heart but moments before had vanished. She looked up to Kellhus, glimpsed the Nail of Heaven over his left shoulder. He seemed an apparition of gold and shadow. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You loved him, didn’t you?”
Her ears burned. For some reason, saying no never occurred to her. One just didn’t lie to Prince Anasûrimbor Kellhus. Instead, she said, “Please don’t tell Akka.”
Kellhus smiled, though his eyes seemed profoundly sad. He reached out, as though to touch her cheek, then dropped his hand.
“Come,” he said. “Night waxes.”
 
Clutching hands with the palm-to-palm urgency of young lovers, Esmenet and Achamian searched through the scrub and grasses for good sleeping ground. They found a flat area near the edge of the grove, not far from the cliff, and rolled out their mats. They laid down, groaning and puffing like an old man and woman. The ironwood nearest them had died some time ago, and it twined across the sky above them, like a thing of alabaster. Through smooth-forking branches, Esmenet studied the constellations, oppressed by the thought of Sarcellus and the angry memory of Achamian’s earlier words …
There’s no hiding from the end of the world!
How could she be such a fool? A harlot who would place herself upon
his
scales? He was a Mandate Schoolman. Every night he lost loves greater than she could imagine, let alone
be
. She’d heard his cries. The frantic babbling in unknown tongues. The eyes lost in ancient hallucinations.
She knew this! How many times had she held him in the humid dark?
Achamian loved her, sure, but Seswatha loved the dead.
“Did I ever tell you,” she said, flinching from these thoughts, “that my mother read the stars?”
“Dangerous,” he replied, “especially in the Nansurium. Didn’t she know the penalties?”

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