The Warrior Prophet

by R. Scott Bakker

  “After Gedea was lost to the Fanim,” Achamian explained, “the Nansur abandoned these lands … Too vulnerable to raids, I suppose … Ruins like this probably dot the entire range.”

  They gathered dead scrub, and Achamian ignited their fire with a sorcerous word, realizing only afterward that he’d set the Latter Prophet’s stomach aflame. Seated upon blocks on either side of the image, they continued talking, the firelight brightening in proportion to the gathering dark.

  They drank unwatered wine, ate bread, leeks, and salted pork. Achamian translated those passages of text visible across the mosaic. “The Marrucees,” he said, studying a stylized seal written in High Sheyic. “This place once belonged to the Marrucees, an old College of the Thousand Temples … If I remember aright, they were destroyed when the Fanim took Shimeh … That means this place was abandoned long before the fall of Gedea.”

  Kellhus followed up with several questions regarding the Colleges—of course. Since Esmenet knew the ecclesiastical labyrinths of the Thousand Temples far better than he, Achamian let her answer. She had, after all, bedded priests from every college, sect, and cult imaginable …

  Fucked them.

  He studied the pinch of sandal straps across his feet as he listened. He needed new ones, he realized. A profound sorrow seized him then, the hapless sorrow of a man persecuted by even the smallest of things. Where would he find sandals in the midst of this madness?

  He excused himself, wandered into the collapsed byways beyond the fire.

  He sat for a time at the ruin’s edge, where the debris tumbled into the grove. All was black beneath the ironwoods, but their blooming crowns seemed otherworldly in the moonlight, slowly rocking to and fro in the breeze. The bittersweet scent reminded him of Xinemus’s orchards.

  “Moping again?” he heard Esmenet say from behind him.

  He turned and saw her standing in gloom, painted in the same pale tones as the surrounding ruin. He wondered that night could make stone resemble skin and skin resemble stone. Then she was in his arms, kissing him, tugging at his linen robes. He pressed her backward, leaned her onto a cracked altar, his hands roaming across her thighs and buttocks. She groped for his cock, clutched it with both hands. They joined fires.

  Afterward, brushing away grit from skin and clothes, they grinned knowing, shy grins.

  “So what do you think?” Achamian asked.

  Esmenet made a noise, something between a laugh and a sigh.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing as tender, as wanton or delicious. Nothing as enchanted as this place …”

  “I meant Kellhus.”

  A flash of anger. “Is there nothing else you think about?”

  His throat tightened. “How can I?”

  She became remote and impenetrable. Serwë’s laughter chimed across the ruins, and he found himself wondering what Kellhus had said.

  “He is remarkable,” Esmenet murmured, refusing to look at him.

  So what should I do? Achamian wanted to cry.

  Instead, he remained silent, tried to throttle the roar of inner voices.

  “We do have each other,” she suddenly said. “Don’t we, Akka?”

  “Of course we do. But what does—”

  “What does anything matter, so long as we have each other?” Always interrupting …

  “Sweet Sejenus, woman, he’s the Harbinger.”

  “But we could flee! From the Mandate. From him. We could hide, just the two of us!”

  “But Esmi … The burden—”

  “Isn’t ours!” she hissed. “Why should we suffer it? Let’s run away! Please, Akka! Leave all this madness behind!”

  “This is foolishness, Esmenet. There’s no hiding from the end of the world! Even if we could, I’d be a sorcerer without a school—a wizard, Esmi. Better to be a witch! They would hunt me. All of them, not just the Mandate. The Schools tolerate no wizards …” He laughed bitterly. “We wouldn’t even survive to be killed.”

  “But this is the first time,” she said, her voice breaking. “The first time I’ve ever …”

  Something—the desolate stoop of her shoulders, perhaps, or the way she pressed her hands together, wrist to wrist—moved Achamian to hold her. But a panicked cry halted him. Serwë.

  “Kellhus bids you come quickly!” she called from the dark. “There’s torches in the distance! Riders!”

  Achamian scowled. “Who’d be fool enough to ride mountain slopes at night?”

  Esmenet didn’t answer. She didn’t need to …

  Fanim.

  Esmenet cursed herself for a fool as they picked their way through the dark. Kellhus had kicked out their fire, transforming the mosaic of the Latter Prophet into a constellation of scattered coals. They hastened across it, joined him on the grasses beyond the heaped debris.

  “Look,” the Prince of Atrithau said, pointing down the slopes.

  If Achamian’s words had winded her, then what she saw robbed her of all remaining breath. Strings of torches wound through the darkness below, following the mighty ramps of earth that composed the only approach to the ruined shrine. Hundreds of glittering points. Heathen, come to gut them. Or worse …

  “They’ll be upon us soon,” Kellhus said.

  Esmenet struggled with a sudden, panting terror. Anything could happen—even with men such as Achamian and Kellhus! The world was exceedingly cruel. “Perhaps if we hide …”

  “They know we’re here,” Kellhus muttered. “Our fire. They followed our fire.”

  “Then we must see,” Achamian said.

  Shocked by his tone, Esmenet glanced in his direction, only to find herself stumbling backward in terror. White light flashed from his eyes and mouth, and words seemed to rumble down like thunder from the mountain faces. Then a line appeared from the earth between his outstretched arms, so brilliant she raised hands against its glare. It flashed upward, more perfect than any geometer’s rule, taller than the brooding Unaras, striking through and illuminating clouds, on into the endless black …

  The Bar of Heaven! she thought—a Cant from his stories of the First Apocalypse.

  Shadows leapt across the far precipices. The tumbling landscape winked into existence as though exposed by a lightning flash. And Esmenet saw armoured horsemen, an entire column of them, shouting in alarm and struggling with their horses. She glimpsed astonished faces …

  “Hold!” Kellhus shouted. “Hold!”

  The light went out. Blackness.

  “They’re Galeoth,” Kellhus said, placing a firm hand on her shoulder.

  “Men of the Tusk.”

  Esmenet blinked, clutched her breast. For among the riders, she’d seen Sarcellus.

  A resonant voice shouted across the darkness: “We search for the Prince of Atrithau! Anasûrimbor Kellhus!”

  The many-coloured tones were unknitted, combed into individual threads: sincerity, worry, outrage, hope … And Kellhus knew there was no danger.

  He’s come for my counsel.

  “Prince Saubon!” Kellhus called. “Come! The faithful are always welcome at our fire!”

  “And sorcerers?” another voice cried. “Are blasphemers welcome as well?”

  The indignation and sarcasm were plain, but the undertones defeated him. Who spoke? A Nansur, from Massentia perhaps, though his accent was strangely difficult to place. A hereditary caste-noble, with rank enough to ride with a prince … One of the Emperor’s generals?

  “Indeed they are,” Kellhus called back, “when they serve the faithful!”

  “Forgive my friend!” Saubon shouted, laughing. “I fear he brought only one pair of breeches!” Hearty Galeoth cheer resounded across the slopes: laughter, catcalls, friendly jeers.

  “What do they want?” Achamian asked in low tones. Even in the gloom, Kellhus could see the lines of recent pain through his present apprehension—remnants of some argument with Esmenet.

  About him.

  “Who knows?” Kellhus said. “At the Council, Saubon was first among thos
e urging the others to march without the Ainoni and the Scarlet Spires. Perhaps with Proyas afield, he seeks further mischief …”

  Achamian shook his head. “He argued that the destruction of Ruöm threatened to demoralize the Men of the Tusk,” the sorcerer amended. “Xinemus told me that you were the one who silenced him … By reinterpreting the portent of the earthquake.”

  “You think he seeks reprisal?” Kellhus asked.

  But it was too late. More and more horsemen were rumbling to a stop in the moonlight, dismounting, stretching weary limbs. Saubon and his entourage trotted toward them, flanked by torch-bearers. The Galeoth Prince reined his caparisoned charger to a halt, his eyes hidden in the shadows of his brow.

  Kellhus lowered his head to the degree required by jnan—a bow between princes.

  “We tracked you all afternoon,” Saubon said, jumping from his saddle. He stood almost as tall as Kellhus, though slightly broader through the chest and shoulders. Like his men, he was geared for battle, wearing not only his chain hauberk, but his helm and gauntlets as well. A hasty Tusk had been stitched beneath the Red Lion embroidered across his surcoat—the mark of the Galeoth Royal House.

  “And who is ‘we’?” Kellhus asked, peering at the man’s fellow riders.

  Saubon made several introductions, starting with his grizzled groom, Kussalt, but Kellhus spared them little more than a cursory glance. The lone Shrial Knight, whom the Prince introduced as Cutias Sarcellus, dominated his attention …

  Another one. Another Skeaös …

  “At last,” Sarcellus said. His large eyes glittered through the fingers of his fraudulent face. “The renowned Prince of Atrithau.”

  He bowed lower than his rank demanded.

  What does this mean, Father?

  So many variables.

  After stationing pickets and dispersing his men about the edges of the grove, Saubon, along with his groom and the Shrial Knight, joined their fire in the ruined chapel’s heart. Following the custom of the southern courts, the Galeoth Prince avoided all talk of his purpose, scrupulously awaiting what practitioners of jnan called the memponti, the “fortuitous turn” that would of its own accord lead to weightier matters. Saubon, Kellhus knew, thought the ways of his own people rude. With every breath he waged war with who he was.

  But it was the Shrial Knight, Sarcellus, who commanded Kellhus’s attention—and not just because of his missing face. Achamian had smoothed the shock from his expression, yet an apprehensive fury animated his eyes each time he looked at the Knight of the Tusk. Achamian not only recognized Sarcellus, Kellhus realized, he hated him. The Dûnyain monk could fairly hear movements of Achamian’s soul: the seething resentment for some past slight, the wincing memories of being struck, the remorse …

  In Sumna, Kellhus realized, recalling to the last detail Achamian’s every reference to his previous mission. Something happened between him and Sarcellus in Sumna. Something involving Inrau …

  Despite his hatred, the sorcerer obviously had no inkling that Sarcellus was another Skeaös … Another Consult skin-spy.

  And neither did Esmenet, though her reaction far eclipsed Achamian’s. Shame. The fear of discovery. The treacherous hope … She thinks he’s come to take her … Take her from Achamian.

  She’d been the thing’s lover.

  But these mysteries paled before the greater question: What was it doing here? Not just in the Holy War, but here, this night, riding at Saubon’s side …

  “How did you find us?” Achamian was asking.

  Saubon ran fingers through his close-cropped hair.

  “My friend, Sarcellus, here. He has an uncanny ability to track …” He turned to the Knight-Commander. “How did you say you learned?”

  “As a youth,” Sarcellus lied, “on my father’s western estates”—he pursed his lusty lips, as though restraining a smile—“tracking Scylvendi …”

  “Tracking Scylvendi,” Saubon repeated, as though to say, Only in the Nansurium … “I was ready to turn back at dusk, but he insisted you were near.” Saubon opened his hands and shrugged.

  Silence.

  Esmenet sat rigid, covering her tattooed hand the way others might avoid smiling to conceal bad teeth. Achamian glanced at Kellhus, expecting him to brush away the awkwardness. Serwë, sensing the undercurrent of anxiety, clutched his thigh. The faceless beast stared into its bowl of wine.

  Ordinarily, Kellhus would’ve said something. But for the moment he could provide little more than rote responses. His eyes watched, but they didn’t focus. His expression merely mirrored those surrounding him. Self had vanished into place, a place of opening, where permutation after permutation was hunted to its merciless conclusion. Consequence and effect. Events like concentric ripples unfolding across the black waters of the future … Each word, each look, a stone.

  There was great peril here. The principles of this encounter had to be grasped. Only the Logos could illuminate the path … Only the Logos.

  “I followed your smell,” Sarcellus was saying. He stared directly at Achamian, his eyes glittering with something incomprehensible. Humour?

  The joke, Kellhus decided, was that this was no joke: the thing had tracked them like a dog. He needed to be exceedingly wary of these creatures. As of yet, he had no idea of their capabilities. Do you know of these things, Father?

  Everything had transformed since he’d taken Drusas Achamian as his teacher. The ground of this world, he now knew, had concealed many, many secrets from his brethren. The Logos remained true, but its ways were far more devious, and far more spectacular, than the Dûnyain had ever conceived. And the Absolute … the End of Ends was more distant than they’d ever imagined. So many obstacles. So many forks in the path …

  Despite his initial scepticism, Kellhus had come to believe much of what Achamian had claimed over the course of their discussions. He believed the stories of the First Apocalypse. He believed the faceless thing before him was an artifact of the Consult. But the Celmomian Prophecy? The coming of a Second Apocalypse? Such things were absurd. By definition, the future couldn’t anticipate the present. What came after could-n’t come before …

  Could it?

  There was so much that must await his father … So many questions.

  His ignorance had already culminated in near disaster. The mere exchange of glances in the Emperor’s Privy Garden had triggered several small catastrophes, including the events beneath the Andiamine Heights, which had convinced Achamian that Kellhus was in fact the Harbinger. If the man decided to tell his School that an Anasûrimbor had returned …

  There was great peril here.

  Drusas Achamian had to remain ignorant—that much was certain. If he knew that Kellhus could see the very skin-spies that so terrified him, he wouldn’t hesitate to contact his masters in Atyersus. So much depended on him remaining estranged from his School—isolated.

  Which meant Kellhus must confront these things on his own.

  “My groom,” Saubon was saying to the Shrial Knight, “swears nothing short of sorcery led you to this place … Kussalt fancies himself quite the tracker.”

  Did the Consult somehow know he’d revealed Skeaös in the Emperor’s court? The Emperor had seen him studying his Prime Counsel, and more importantly, he’d remembered. Several times now, Kellhus had seen Imperial spies watching from a discreet distance, following. It was possible the Consult knew how Skeaös had been uncovered, perhaps even probable.

  If they did know, then this Sarcellus could very well be a probe. They would need to discover whether Skeaös’s unmasking had been an accident of the Emperor’s paranoia, or whether this stranger from Atrithau had somehow seen through his face. They would watch him, ask discreet questions, and when this provided no answers, they would make contact … Wouldn’t they?

  But there was also Achamian to consider. Doubtless the Consult would keep close watch on Mandate Schoolmen, the only individuals who believed they still existed. Sarcellus and Achamian had made contact before,
both directly, as evident from the sorcerer’s reaction, and indirectly via Esmenet, who obviously had been seduced at some point in the past. They were using her for some reason … Perhaps they were testing her, sounding her capacity for deceit and treachery. She’d told Achamian nothing of Sarcellus; that much was apparent.

  The study is so deep, Father.

  A thousand possibilities, galloping across the trackless steppe of what was to come. A hundred scenarios flashing through his soul, some branching and branching, terminally deflected from his objectives, others flaring out in disaster …

  Direct confrontation. Accusations levelled before the Great Names. Acclaim for revealing the horror within. Mandate involvement. Open war with the Consult … Unworkable. The Mandate couldn’t be involved until they could be dominated. War against the Consult couldn’t be risked. Not yet.

  Indirect confrontation. Forays into the night. Throats cut. Attempted reprisals. A hidden war gradually revealed … Also unworkable. If Sarcellus and the others were murdered, the Consult would know someone could see them. When they learned the details of Skeaös’s discovery, if they hadn’t already, they would realize it was Kellhus, and indirect confrontation would become open war.

  Inaction. Watchful enemies. Appraisal. Sterile probes. Second guessing. Responses delayed by the need to know. Worry in the shadow of growing power … Workable. Even if they learned the details surrounding Skeaös’s discovery, the Consult would only have suspicions. If what Achamian claimed was true, they weren’t so crude as to blot out potential threats without first understanding them. Confrontation was inevitable. The outcome depended only on how much time he had to prepare …

  He was one of the Conditioned, Dûnyain. Circumstances would yield. The mission must—

  “Kellhus,” Serwë was saying. “The Prince has asked you a question.”

  Kellhus blinked, smiled as though at his own foolishness. Without exception, everyone about the fire stared at him, some concerned, some puzzled.

  “I’m-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I …” He glanced nervously from watcher to watcher, exhaled, as though reconciling himself to his principles, no matter how embarrassing. “Sometimes I … I see things …”