The Judging Eye

by R. Scott Bakker

  The Aspect-Emperor.

  It was at once glorious and an abomination. That so many could be folded into the intent of a single man.

  The calm slipped from his heart and limbs, and the mad rondo of questions began batting through his soul. What had happened at the Council? Did he see? Did he not see? Did he see and merely pretend not to see?

  How could he, Sorweel, the broken son of a broken people, shout hate beneath the all-seeing eyes of the Aspect-Emperor, and not be … not be …

  Corrected.

  He quickened his pace, and the details of his surroundings retreated into half-glimpsed generalities. His left hand strayed to his cheek, to the warm memory of the muck Porsparian had smeared there. To the earthen spit of the Goddess …

  Yatwer.

  He found Porsparian busy preparing his evening repast. Their small camp bore all the signs of a laborious day. The sum of Sorweel’s meagre wardrobe hung across the tent’s guy-ropes. The contents of his saddle packs lay across a mat to the left of the tent entrance. The tent, which stood emptied of all its contents, had been washed, its sun-orange panels drying in the failing light. The old Shigeki had even set his small camp stool next to the swirling of their humble fire.

  Sorweel paused at the invisible perimeter.

  The High Court of the Sakarpic King.

  Seeing him, Porsparian scurried to kneel at his feet, a bundle of old brown limbs.

  “What did you do?” Sorweel heard himself bark.

  The slave glanced up at him, his wrinkled look as resentful as alarmed. Sorweel had never addressed him as a servant, let alone as a slave.

  He grabbed the old man’s arm, yanked him to his feet with an ease that he found shocking. “What?” he cried. He paused, screwed his face in an expression of frustration and regret, tried to remember the Sheyic words Eskeles had taught him. Surely he could ask this—something as simple as this!

  “What you do?” he cried.

  A wild look of incomprehension.

  Sorweel thrust him back, then maintaining his glare, made a pantomime of taking soil and rubbing it across his cheeks. “What? What you do?”

  Like a flutter of wings, Porsparian’s confusion flickered into a kind or perverse glee. He grinned, began nodding like a madman confirmed in his delusions. “Yemarte … Yemarte’sus!”

  And Sorweel understood. For the first time, it seemed, he actually heard his slave’s voice.

  “Blessed … Blessed you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Cil-Aujas

  A soul too far wandered from the sun,

  walking deeper ways,

  into regions beneath map and nation,

  breathing air drawn for the dead,

  talking of lamentation.

  —PROTATHIS, THE GOAT’S HEART

  Spring, 20 New Imperial Year (4132 Year-of-the-Tusk), Mount Aenaratiol

  She is terrified and alive.

  Mimara runs over mouldered bones, a pinch of sun-brilliance carried high in the air above her. In her soul she thinks circles, while with her eyes she sees the light swing and seesaw, and she ponders the impossibility of it, how the light shed is the same light as any other, baring the surfaces of things, and yet at the same time not quite whole, as though strained through a filter—robbed of some essential sediment.

  Sorcerous light, stretched over the ruin like moulted skin. Her light!

  Fear crowds the moment, to be sure. She knows why the Wizard has given her this Gift, perhaps better than he. Part of her, she realizes, will not survive this underworld labyrinth …

  Great Cil-Aujas.

  She is inclined to see history as degeneration. Years ago, not long after her mother had brought her to the Andiamine Heights, an earthquake struck Momemn, not severe, but violent enough to crack walls and to set arms and ornaments toppling. There had been one mural in particular, the Osto-Didian, the eunuchs called it, depicting the First Holy War battling about Shimeh, with all the combatants cramped shield to shield, sword to sword, like dolls bound into sheaves. Where the other murals had been webbed with fractures, this one seemed to have been pounded by hammers. Whole sections had sloughed away, exposing darker, deeper images: naked men across the backs of bulls. In shallow sockets here and there even this layer had given out, especially near the centre, where her stepfather had once hung out of proportion in the sky. There, after dabbing away the white powder with her fingertips, she saw a young man’s mosaic face, black hair high in the wind, child-wide eyes fixed upon some obscured foe.

  That, she understood, was history: the piling on of ages like plaster and paint, each image a shroud across the others, the light of presence retreating, from the Nonmen to the Five Tribes to the New Empire, coming at last to a little girl in the embrace of hard-handed men …

  To the daughter who dined with her Empress mother, listening to the tick of enamel tapping gold, watching the older woman’s eyes wander lines of sorrow, remorse thick enough to spit.

  To the woman who raged beneath a wizard’s tower.

  To now.

  She is inclined to see history as degeneration, and what greater proof did she need, now that they walked beneath the mural of mannish strife, now that they touched the glass of first things?

  Cil-Aujas. Great and dead, a mosaic exposed. What was human paint compared to this?

  Everything everywhere has the smell of age, of air so leached of odour and event that the dust they scoop into the air with their boots actually makes it seem young, ushers it into a more human scale. Ageless air, she thinks. Dead air, the kind that lingers in the chests of corpses.

  And everything everywhere has the look of weight and suffocation. It makes her think of her furies, those times when she wants to pull all roofs down, so that her perishing could be her vengeance. What would it be like, she wonders, to be slapped between mountain palms? Every ceiling plummeting, so that it seems the floor bucks up. The light snuffed. The thunder of sound crushed to nothing. Everything captured, even the dust. Limbs little more than blades of grass. Life seeping through fault and fracture.

  The darkness that dwells inside stones.

  She bears the light of presence—a Surillic Point, he had called it—and she runs across floors older than the most ancient nations of Men. She stands beneath all empire and ambition, and she illuminates. So simple, she knows—so paltry as to be pathetic. But this is how all greatness begins.

  She carries a sphere of sight about her, bloated and invisible save where its touch frosts the floor and ruin white. She is a witch … at last! How can she not clamp tooth to tooth in dark glee? How many times had she dreamed, her limbs pinned to pillows, of speaking light and fire?

  The company has ceased marching, receives her with wonder and consternation. She tells them that Sarl and Achamian follow close behind. She sees the tilt in their looks, the way they take a step back in their eyes, as though to regain some lost perspective. The light tingles. A strut haunts her limbs, and she thinks of her slave-sisters back in Carythusal, the way they posed like rare and precious things when wearing something new. She too had cried over dresses.

  The Skin Eaters turn to the dark behind them, searching the flat blackness. When their eyes fail them, they turn their scrutiny to her. They seem a wall, even though they stand scattered among their mules. Her light gilds the texture of their armour. It shines along the rims of their shields, bares the dents of metal hammered over wooden edges. It warms old leather, forks and branches along gut-stitched seams. It bares their anxious faces, bobs silver up and down the hone of their restless swords. It paints white circles in their beasts’ black gaze.

  Fierce men, with the wild pride of the dispossessed. They would eat her skin, were it not for the Wizard. They would glory in the stink of her. They would wear her the way they wear shrivelled bits of Sranc, as a charm, a trophy, and a totem. As a seal and a sign.

  It seems she has always known that men were more animal than women were animal. She was sold before her mother could tell her th
is, but still she knew. The animal continually leans forward in the souls of men, forever gnaws the leash. Even here, in the Black Halls of Cil-Aujas, this truth is no less ancient.

  Even here, so tragically out of their depth, they lean to the promise of her vulnerability.

  “Where’s the Wizard?” someone asks.

  She retreats a step, and her shadow falls behind her. She has lost her light to the space between her and the Skin Eaters—a space she has never owned. She can sense the Captain standing to the right of her, turns to risk his dominating gaze but finds herself staring at the pocked dust instead. She has been tricked, it seems, into a posture of submission.

  “Mimara,” a voice calls. “What’s the matter, girl?” It’s Somandutta, the one man here that she trusts, and only then because he is no man.

  “You have no call to fear us …”

  A chorus of shouts greets the abrupt arrival of Sarl and Achamian. In a heartbeat she is forgotten by all save Somandutta, who comes to her side, saying, “The light … How did you do that?”

  She bites her lower lip, curses down the urge to lean her head against the armour scaling his chest. Of Achamian she can see nothing but the congregated backs of the scalpers with their packs and their slung shields. But she hears his voice between the figures, speaking to the Captain with quarrelsome urgency, something about Chorae moving through the halls immediately below them. Someone, Kiampas, immediately suggests the Bloody Picks, but the Wizard is dubious, asking why anyone wealthy enough to own a Chorae would be fool enough to hunt Sranc for money. Mimara wonders if their Chorae-bearing Captain will take offence.

  Then Cleric says, “He’s right.” The inhuman voice doesn’t so much reach farther as it reaches deeper, carried through the stone of the floor into her bones. “I sense them too.”

  The Skin Eaters open, back away, each staring at the company of prone shadows splayed across the dust scuffed about their feet. She knows they think they can feel the Chorae too …

  Then suddenly she feels them. Her limbs jolt, and she sways, for her body had thought the ground solid, and now she senses open space, breaths and plummets between leagues of stone. Chorae, bottomless punctures in being, traverse them, a necklace of little voids carried by something that runs in a lumbering file … something.

  “They travel in the direction I lead us,” Cleric says, “toward the Fifth Anterograde Gate …”

  “You think they mean to cut us off?” Kiampas asks.

  No one speaks.

  She sees Sarl, gazing with his pond-scum eyes, his manic face rutted and pale. But when she looks at the other old man, Achamian, she finds that her Judging Eye has opened … She has read her stepfather’s writing on sorcery, his Novum Arcanum. She knows that the God peers through all eyes, and that the Few—sorcerer or witch, it did not matter—were simply those whose sight recollected something of His all-seeing gaze and so could speak with the dread timbre of His all-creating voice.

  She sees Achamian as others do, stooped in his mad hermit robes, his beard stiff against his breast, his complexion the dark of long-used skins. She sees the Mark, soiling his colours, blasting his edges.

  And though her eyes blink and roll against it, she sees the Judgment …

  He is carrion. He is horror. His skin is burned to paste.

  Drusas Achamian is damned.

  Her breath catches. Almost without thinking, she clutches Somandutta’s free hand—the slick cool of iron rings and the grease of leather shocks her skin. She squeezes hard, as though her fingers need confirmation of their warm-blooded counterparts. The Chorae and their inscrutable bearers move beneath her feet, each a point of absolute chill.

  Part of her, she realizes, will not survive this underworld labyrinth.

  She prays that it is the lesser part.

  “Fucking mules! How can you run with fucking mules!” the Zeümi Sword-Dancer cries after Sarl has once again screamed at them to make haste. The haunches of the beasts are already shagged with blood from the prick and slap of the scalpers’ weapons. The clopping of their hooves makes a curious clatter across the dust and stone, like wood without the hollow, an avalanche of axes chopping. Their packs wobble drunkenly—one has already lost its entire burden. Stepping about the debris, tents and cooking utensils, adds material to Mimara’s sense of panic.

  Achamian has said nothing since leaving the airy blackness of the Repositorium. He labours beside her; the slight tick in his leg has swollen into a hobble. His breath comes hard and greedy, as though he needs to feed all the years baled within him. When he coughs, his chest sounds damp and torn, more rotted wool than flesh.

  The vaulted hallways scroll above and about them, the basalt seemingly shocked by the sudden onset of their lights. The images rise and arch and fall away, as quick as life. There is no time to ponder the dead eyes that had once dreamed them. The company runs to survive.

  Hope and urgency have become a single jarring note.

  She can no longer feel the Chorae beneath them—their pursuers have outrun them using deeper halls, and now no one knows where and when they will strike. The Skin Eaters wrap their horror about their trust in their Captain, say nothing save to joke or to gripe. Questions have become perverse, an indulgence fit only for the obese.

  Cleric leads them through a gallery of branching corridors, some so narrow the company is stretched into a single file longer than their sorcerous illumination. Those scalpers trapped in the rear cry out against the rising darkness. When Mimara glances back, it’s as though she looks down a throat or a well—walls narrowing until blackness smothers them. She can scarce see the sheen roll across the laggards’ helms.

  A pain climbs into her chest, and she imagines an eye squinting from her heart.

  There is no doubt they move through the deeps now. Only when the walls are tight and the ceilings low can you feel their constricting aura—or so it seems. Only the threat of closure makes the boggling enormity plain. They are sealed from all things, not simply sun and sky. The very world walls them in.

  She looks up and around in an effort to throw off the oppressive sense of cringing. The stone reliefs seem to burn, so near are they to the encased light, so stark and immediate. Hunters wrestling lions, shepherds balancing lambs upon shields, on and on, all struck speechless in the stone of ages. The illumination crosses a lip; the ancient vignettes fall away, as though over inverted cliffs. They have come to another great chamber, not as vast as the Repositorium, but great enough. The air seems cold and graceful.

  They rope from the narrow hall, gather in milling clots, gawking at this latest wonder. Their mules bray and tremble for exhaustion. One collapses amid echoing curses.

  The columns are square, panelled in more animal manifolds, and even though she can see only the lower and outer limits of them, she knows they form great aisles across the darkness, that the company stands in some underworld forum or agora. Achamian is leaning against his knees next to her, staring into his shadow, mustering the spit to swallow. His teeth bared in exhaustion, he bends his head back, looks to the looming gallery.

  “The High Halls,” he gasps. “The High Halls of Mû—”

  Haroooooooooooooom!

  Men twist and whirl about. The dust shivers. The sound seems to filter, to rise, as though they can only hear what mounts the surface of their ears. Sranc horns.

  They feel it in their teeth—not so much an ache as a taste.

  Never before has she heard them, and now she understands their antique power, the madness that saw mothers strangle their own children in besieged cities of yore. Their depth is tidal in its compass, yet riddled with thin and piercing notes, like a shriek unbraided into wincing threads, each towed wide across the unnameable. A portent hangs within them, a promise of what is other and impenetrable, of things that would glory in her lament. They remind her of her humanity the way burnt edges speak of fire.

  Temple silence rises in their wake. There is a distant sound—like leaves skidding over marble flagston
es. It seems to tighten her skin to the prick of moments passing.

  Cleric calls, and they follow. They leave the fallen mule where it lays grunting.

  They run, but the slow succession of pillars seems to diminish their pace. Their arcane lights throw shadows that swing and sweep out with monumental elegance. The greater blackness hangs from them, shrouding the hollows beyond the adjacent aisles.

  The horns have a swelling nearness to them now, a cracking blare. Only the stone forest of columns divides them from their pursuers—she knows this with a herd animal’s certainty. For the first time a part of her dares believe that she’s about to die. Her bowels loosen to the jolt of her steps. Her stomach tightens to a burn. She throws her gaze wildly about, desperate to find something that she doesn’t recognize. For it seems to her that she has known this place all along, that her soul, like an old knot undone, bears the kink and imprint of her future … The pillars braced against cataclysmic burdens. The bestial totems, their many limbs flattened into the dark. The stink of her exertions. The sense of loss and mortal misdirection. The gnashing of teeth and iron in the arching maze of black behind her …

  They are coming. Out of the pit they are coming. The flutter of reverberations in her chest seems to confirm it. This is where she dies.

  The outer reaches of their lights flatten against a wall, roll back the vertical murk with twin rings of illumination, the one wider and brighter because of Cleric’s position out in front of Achamian. Mimara stumps to a stop with the others. The dust rolls forward, makes skirts about their waists. She cranes her neck, absently rubbing a stitch in her side—despite her terror she is relieved to simply breathe. Narrative reliefs band the wall, stacking high into the darkness, but the graven figures are not carved nearly so deep or so realistically as so the others. A heartbeat passes before she sees the hair and beards and chains that mark the forms as Men.