The Warrior Prophet

by R. Scott Bakker

  The Scarlet Schoolmen watched him expectantly, even apprehensively.

  “Well?” Eleäzaras asked.

  Achamian blinked, cocked his neck against the pain. “Where are we?” he croaked.

  A broad smile split the Grandmaster’s thin grey goatee.

  “Why, Iothiah of course.”

  Achamian grimaced and nodded. He looked down to the Uroborian Circle beneath, saw his urine trickle along the grout between mosaic tiles …

  It didn’t seem a matter of courage, only a giddy instant of disconnection, a wilful ignorance of the consequences.

  He said two words.

  Agony.

  Enough to shriek, to empty bowels once again.

  Threads of incandescence, winding, forking beneath his skin, as though he possessed sunlight for blood.

  Shriek and shriek until it seemed that eyes must rupture, that teeth must crack, spill to mosaic floor, clicking like porcelain against porcelain.

  And then back to nightmares of a far older, and far less momentary, torment.

  When the shrieking stopped, Eleäzaras stared at the unconscious figure. Even chained and naked, his shrivelled phallus prodding from black pubic hair, the man seemed … threatening.

  “Stubborn,” Iyokus said, in a tone that insolently asked, What did you expect?

  “Indeed,” Eleäzaras replied, and fumed. Delay after delay. The Gnosis would be such a lovely thing to wrest from this quivering dog, but it would be an unexpected gift. What he needed to know is what happened that night in the Imperial Catacombs beneath the Andiamine Heights. He needed to know what this man knew of the Cishaurim skin-spies.

  The Cishaurim!

  Directly or indirectly, this one Mandate dog had undone whatever advantage they’d gained at the Battle of Mengedda. First, by killing two sorcerers of rank at the Sareotic Library, among them Yutirames, an old and powerful ally of Eleäzaras’s. Then, by providing that fanatic Proyas with leverage. If it hadn’t been for the man’s threats of avenging his “dear old tutor,” Eleäzaras would never have allowed the Scarlet Spires to join the Holy War on the South Bank. Six! Six sorcerers of rank fell to Fanim bowmen armed with Chorae at the Battle of Anwurat. Ukrummu, Calasthenes, Naïn …

  Six!

  And this, Eleäzaras knew, was precisely what the Cishaurim wanted … To bleed them while jealously guarding their own blood!

  Oh, he did covet the Gnosis. So much that it almost proved a counterweight to that other word—“Cishaurim.” Almost. That evening at the Sareotic Library, watching this one man resist eight sorcerers of rank with glittering, abstract lights, Eleäzaras had envied as he’d never envied before. Such miraculous power. Such purity of dispensation. How? he had thought. How?

  Fucking Mandate pigs.

  After he learned what he needed about the Cishaurim, he would see this dog plied in the old way. All things in the world were a lottery, and who knew, seizing this man might prove an act as significant as destroying the Cishaurim—in the end.

  That, Eleäzaras decided, was Iyokus’s problem. He could not fathom the fact that certain rewards made even the most desperate gambles worthwhile. He knew nothing of hope.

  Chanv addicts never seemed to know anything of hope.

  The Sempis seemed more than a river in the crossing.

  Esmenet had ridden behind Serwë to a nearby Inrithi ferry, both terrified of floating on a beast’s back, and amazed by the girl’s native ability to ride. She was Cepaloran, Serwë explained. She’d been born astride a saddle.

  Which meant, Esmenet thought in a moment of uncommon bitterness, with her legs spread wide.

  Afterward, standing in the shade of hissing leaves, she looked across the river to the denuded North Bank. The barrenness saddened her, reminded her of her heart and why she had to leave. But the distance … A terrifying sense of finality seized her, a certainty that the Sempis, whose waters she’d thought kind, was in fact ruthlessly vindictive, and would brook no return.

  I can swim … I know how to swim!

  Kellhus clasped her about the shoulder. “The world looks south,” he said.

  Returning to the Conriyan encampment was far less difficult than she feared. Proyas had pitched camp beyond the high walls of Ammegnotis, the only great city on the South Bank. Because of this they found themselves part of a great stream of market-bound traffic: bands of horsemen, wains, barefooted penitents, all crowding the side of the road where the shade of palms was deepest. But rather than vanishing into the crowd, they found themselves beset by people, mostly Men of the Tusk but some camp-followers as well, all begging to be touched or blessed by the Warrior-Prophet. Word of his stand against the Khirgwi, Serwë explained, had further confirmed him in the hearts of many people. They were fairly mobbed by the time they reached the camp.

  “He no longer rebukes them,” Esmenet said, watching in astonishment.

  Serwë laughed. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  And it was—it was! There was Kellhus, the man who had teased her so many times about their fire, walking among adoring masses, smiling, touching cheeks, uttering warm and encouraging words. There was Kellhus!

  The Warrior-Prophet.

  He looked up to them, grinned and winked. Pressed against the girl’s back in the saddle, Esmenet could feel Serwë shiver in delight, and for an instant she experienced a pang of savage jealousy. Why did she always lose? Why did the Gods hate her so? Why not someone else, someone deserving? Why not Serwë?

  But shame followed hard on these thoughts. Kellhus had come for her. Kellhus! This man whom others worshipped had come out of concern for her.

  He does this for Achamian. For his teacher …

  Proyas had posted pickets around the outskirts of the Conriyan camp—primarily because of the furor surrounding Kellhus, Serwë explained—and they soon found themselves walking unmolested through long canvas alleys.

  Esmenet had told herself she feared returning because it would stir too many recollections. But losing those recollections was what she truly feared. Her refusal to leave their old camp had been rash, desperate, pathetic … Kellhus had shown her that. But remaining had fortified her somehow—or so it seemed when she thought about it. There was the clutching sense of defensiveness, the certainty that she must protect Achamian’s surroundings. She’d even refused to touch the chipped clay bowl he’d used for his tea that final morning. By describing his absence in such heartbreaking detail, such things had become, it seemed to her, fetishes, charms that would secure his return. And there was the sense of desolate pride. Everyone had fled, but she remained—she remained! She would look across the abandoned fields, at the firepits becoming earthen, at the paths scuffed through the grasses, and all the world would seem a ghost. Only her loss would seem real … Only Achamian. Wasn’t there some glory, some grace in that?

  Now she was moving on—no matter what Kellhus said about hearth and family. Did that mean she was leaving Akka behind as well?

  She wept while Kellhus helped her pitch Achamian’s tent, so small and threadbare, in the shadow of the grand brocaded pavilion he shared with Serwë. But she was grateful. So very grateful.

  She had assumed the first few nights would be awkward, but she was wrong. Kellhus was too generous, and Serwë too innocent, for her to feel anything other than welcome. From time to time, Kellhus would make her laugh, simply to remind her, Esmenet suspected, that she could still feel joy. Otherwise, he would either share her sorrow, or withdraw, so she might suffer in seclusion.

  Serwë was … well, Serwë. Sometimes she would seem utterly oblivious to Esmenet’s grief and act as though nothing had changed, as though Achamian might at any moment come strolling down the winding alley, laughing or quarrelling with Xinemus. And though Esmenet found the thought of this offensive, she found it peculiarly comforting in practice. It was nice to pretend.

  Other times, Serwë would seem absolutely devastated, for her, for Achamian, as well as for herself. Part of this was the pregnancy, Esmenet knew—she he
rself had wept and laughed like a madwoman while carrying her daughter—but Esmenet found it particularly difficult to bear. She would dutifully ask Serwë what was wrong, would always be gentle, but her thoughts would fill her with shame. If Serwë said she cried for Achamian, Esmenet would wonder why. Had they been lovers for more than one night? If Serwë said she cried for her, Esmenet would be indignant. What? Was she that pathetic? And if Serwë simply seemed to wallow, Esmenet would find herself disgusted. How could anyone be so selfish?

  Afterward, Esmenet would berate herself. What would Achamian think of such bitter, spiteful thoughts? How disappointed he’d be! “Esmi!” he’d say. “Esmi, please …” And she’d spend watch after sleepless watch remembering all her horrid words, all her petty cruelties, and begging the Gods for forgiveness. She didn’t mean them. How could she?

  On her third night, she heard a soft tapping against her tent flap. When she pulled it aside, Serwë pressed in, smelling of smoke, oranges, and jasmine. The half-naked girl knelt in the gloom crying. Esmenet already knew Kellhus hadn’t returned, because she’d been listening. He had his councils and, of course, his growing congregation.

  “Serchaa?” she asked, overcome by the motherly weariness of having to console those who suffered far less than herself. “What is it, Serchaa?”

  “Please, Esmi. Please, I beg you!”

  “Please what, Serchaa? What do you mean?”

  The girl hesitated. Her eyes were little more than glittering points in the gloom.

  “Don’t steal him!” Serwë suddenly cried. “Don’t steal him from me!”

  Esmenet laughed, but softly so as not to bruise the girl’s feelings.

  “Steal Kellhus,” she said.

  “Please, Esmi! Y-you’re so beautiful … Almost as beautiful as me! But you’re smart too! You speak to him the way other men speak to him! I’ve heard you!”

  “Serchaa … I love Akka. I love Kellhus too, but not … not the way you fear. Please, you mustn’t fear! I couldn’t bear it if you feared me, Serchaa!”

  Esmenet had thought herself sincere, but afterward, as she nestled against Serwë’s slender back, she found herself exulting in the thought of Serwë’s fear. She curled the girl’s blond hair between her fingers, thinking of the way Serwë had swept it across Achamian’s chest … How easy, she wondered, would it yank from her scalp?

  Why did you lie with Akka? Why?

  The following morning, Esmenet awoke stricken with remorse. Hatred, as the Sumni said, was a rapacious houseguest, and lingered only in hearts fat with pride. Esmenet’s heart had grown very thin. She stared at the girl in the tinted light. Serwë had rolled in her sleep, and now lay with her angelic face turned to Esmenet. Her right hand cupped the bulge of her stomach. She breathed quiet as a babe.

  How could such beauty dwell in a slumbering face? For a time, Esmenet pondered what it was she thought she saw. There was a peculiar sense of sneakiness, the thrill of one-sided witness so familiar to children. This was what made Esmenet grin. But there was far more: the aura of dormant life, the premonition of death, the wonder of seeing the unruly carnival of human expression enclosed in the stillness of a single point. There was a sense of truth, a recognition that all faces held this one point in common. This, Esmenet knew, was her face, as it was Achamian’s, or even Kellhus’s. But more than anything, there was a glorious vulnerability. The sleeping throat, the Nilnameshi proverb went, was easily cut.

  Was this not love? To be watched while you slept …

  She was crying when Serwë awoke. She watched the girl blink, focus, and frown.

  “Why?” Serwë asked.

  Esmenet smiled. “Because you’re so beautiful,” she said. “So perfect.”

  Serwë’s eyes flashed with joy. She rolled onto her back, stretching her arms into the stuffy air.

  “I know!” she cried, rolling her shoulders in a little jig. She looked to Esmenet, bounced her eyebrows up and down. “Everybody wants me!” she laughed. “Even you!”

  “Little bitch!” Esmenet gasped, raising her hands as though to claw at her eyes.

  Kellhus was already at the fire when they tumbled from the tent, laughing and squealing. He shook his head—as perhaps a man should.

  From that day, Esmenet found herself tending to Serwë with even greater kindness. It was so strange, so confusing, the friendship she’d found with this girl, this pregnant child who had taken a prophet as a lover.

  Even before Achamian had left for the Library, she’d wondered what it was Kellhus saw in Serwë. Certainly it had to be more than her beauty—which was, Esmenet often thought, nothing short of otherworldly. Kellhus saw hearts, not skin, no matter how smooth or marble white. And Serwë’s heart had seemed so flawed. Joyous and open, certainly, but also vain, petulant, peevish, and wanton.

  But now Esmenet wondered whether these very flaws held the secret of her heart’s perfection. For she’d glimpsed that perfection while watching her sleep. For an instant, she’d glimpsed what only Kellhus could see … The beauty of frailty. The splendour of imperfection.

  She had witnessed, she realized. Witnessed truth.

  She could find no proper words, but she felt better for it, revived somehow. That morning Kellhus had looked at her and had nodded in a frank, admiring manner that reminded her of Xinemus. He said nothing because nothing needed to be said—or so it seemed. Perhaps, she thought, truth wasn’t unlike sorcery. Perhaps those who see truth simply see each other.

  Later, before she left with Serwë to scrounge through the half-abandoned bazaars of Ammegnotis, Kellhus assisted her with her reading. Despite her protestations, he’d given her The Chronicle of the Tusk as a primer. Simply holding the leather-bound manuscript filled her with dread. The look of it, the smell of it, even the rasping creak of its spine spoke of righteousness and irrevocable judgement. The pages seemed inked in iron. Every word she sounded out possessed an anxiousness all its own. Every bird-track column threatened the next.

  “I need not,” she told Kellhus, “read the warrant of my own damnation!”

  “What does it say?” Kellhus asked, ignoring her tantrum.

  “That I’m filth!”

  “What does it say, Esmi.”

  She returned to the exhausting trial of wrestling sounds from marks, and words from sounds.

  The day was desert hot, particularly in the city, where the stone and the mud brick soaked up the sun and seemed to redouble its heat. Esmenet retired early that night, and for the first time in many days, fell asleep without crying for Achamian.

  She awoke to what the Nansur called “fool’s morning.” Her eyes simply fluttered open, and she found herself alert, even though the darkness and the temperature told her the morning lay many watches away. She frowned at the entrance to the tent, which had been pulled open. Her bare feet jutted from her blankets. Moonlight bathed them and the sandalled feet of a man …

  “Such interesting company you keep,” Sarcellus said.

  Screaming never occurred to her. For a heartbeat or two, his presence seemed as proper as it seemed impossible. He lay beside her, his head propped on his elbow, his large brown eyes glittering with amusement. Beneath white, gold-floriated vestments, he wore a Shrial gown with a Tusk embroidered across its chest. He smelled of sandalwood and other ritual incenses she couldn’t identify.

  “Sarcellus,” she murmured. How long had he been watching her?

  “You never did tell the sorcerer about me, did you?”

  “No.”

  He shook his head in rueful mockery. “Naughty whore.”

  The sense of unreality drained away, and the first true pang of fear struck her.

  “What do you want, Sarcellus?”

  “You.”

  “Leave …”

  “Your prophet isn’t what you think he is … You do know that.”

  Fear had become terror. She knew full well how cruel he could be to those who fell outside the narrow circle of his respect, but she’d always thought herself w
ithin that circle—even after she’d left his tent. But something had happened … Somehow, she understood she meant nothing, absolutely nothing, to the man now gazing upon her.

  “Leave now, Sarcellus.”

  The Knight-Commander laughed. “But I need you, Esmi. I need your help … There’s gold …”

  “I’ll scream. I’m warning—”

  “There’s life!” Sarcellus snarled. Somehow his hand had clamped about her mouth. She didn’t need to feel the prick to know he held a knife to her throat.

  “Listen, whore. You’ve made a habit of begging at the wrong table. The sorcerer’s dead. Your prophet will soon follow. Now I ask, where does that leave you?”

  He swept the covers away, exposed her to the warm night air. She flinched, sobbed as the knifepoint swizzled across her moonlit skin.

  “Eh, old whore? What will you do when your peach loses its pucker, hmm? Whom will you bed then? How will you end, I wonder? Will you be fucking lepers? Or will you be sucking scared little boys for scraps of bread?”

  She wet herself in terror.

  Sarcellus breathed deep, as though savouring the bouquet of her humiliation. His eyes laughed. “Is that understanding I smell?”

  Esmenet, sobbing, nodded against the iron fingers.

  Sarcellus smirked, removed his hand.

  She shrieked, screamed until it seemed her throat must bleed.

  Then Kellhus held her, and she was drawn from the tent to the glowing coals of the firepit. She heard shouts, saw men crowding about them with torches, heard voices rumbling in Conriyan. Somehow she explained what happened, shuddering and sobbing within the frame of Kellhus’s strong arms. After what seemed both heartbeats and days, the commotion passed. People returned to what sleep remained to them. The terror receded, replaced by the exhausted throb of embarrassment. Kellhus told her he would complain to Gotian, but that there would be very little anyone could do.