Achamian turned back to the sky, but the bird was nowhere to be seen.
“At long last,” Kellhus continued, casually descending the final turn of the stair, “we tread the very ground of scripture.”
Achamian’s thoughts raced. What should he do? Was the Consult planning an attack, or was it simply the Scarlet Spires, up to some damnable scarlet mischief? He resolved to remain wary, to ignore the tidal pull of Kellhus’s oratory.
The Warrior-Prophet crossed the dais to Esmenet, placed what seemed a luminous hand on her shoulder. “From this very place,” he said, “old Shikol looked to his debauched court and asked, ‘Who is this menial who speaks as King?’” He gestured to ruined Charaöth—an expansive wave. “From this very place—here—Shikol raised the Gilded Thighbone …
“He judged my brother.”
As always, Kellhus spoke as though his words had no significance outside the Truth that shone through them—as though they were consumed by their meaning. Attend only to these simple things, his tone said, and you shall be astonished.
Achamian struggled to remain alert.
“At long last, we holy travellers, we Men of the Tusk, tread the very ground of scripture.” Kellhus’s expression darkened, and he looked about, to the lintel hanging above, to the columns queued across the floors before him. What had been hushed expectation escalated into something more profound, as though all present had become as breathless as the stone about them. “This, this is the very house of my brother’s oppressor. This is the house of he who would murder Inri Sejenus, asking ‘Who is this menial who speaks as King?’”
“Think! Think of how far we have come. Think of all the lands, both sumptuous and severe. Think of all the steaming cities. Think of all that we have conquered! And now we have arrived at the very gates …ʺHe reached out to the eastern haze with his right hand, and again Achamian saw it, the disc of ethereal gold, the halo …
Someone cried out in rapture.
“One last horizon!” Kellhus cried, his voice at once rumbling from the skies and whispering into every ear. “One last horizon and we shall see the Sacred Land. One final march, and at last, at long last, we shall raise sword and song to Holy Shimeh! Even now we rewrite the scripture of this place!ʺ
The Great and Lesser Names, who had watched rapt, erupted in shouts of ardour and worship. And Achamian could not but wonder what they must sound like to the Gerothans skulking the alleys below. The mad conquerors …
“Never!” Kellhus thundered. “Never has the world seen such a band as we … We Men of the Tusk.” Suddenly he swept his sword, Certainty, from its sheath. It glared milk-white in the sun. Achamian watched its reflected light bounce across the Lords of the Holy War. Men squinted and blinked.
“We are the God’s own knife, cast in the crucible of plague, thirst, and starvation, tempered by the hammers of war, doused in the blood of countless enemies!
“We …” He trailed without warning, smiled as though caught in the commission of some harmless vice. “It is the wont of Men to boast,” he said ruefully. “Who among us hasn’t whispered lies in a maiden’s ear?” Laughter rumbled through the headless pillars. “Anything that might make them ponder the swing of our kilts …” More laughter, this time booming. Gone was the high oratory; the Warrior-Prophet had become the Prince of Atrithau, their wry and even-handed peer. He shrugged, grinned like a man among those about to drink.
“Even still, what is, is … War watches through our eyes. Doom itself echoes in our call.
“What is, is. The glory of our undertaking will outshine that belonging to any of our forefathers. It will be a beacon through the Ages. It will astonish and gratify, and yea, it will even outrage. It will be recited by a thousand thousand lips. It will be committed to memory. And the children of our children’s children will take up their ancestor lists and invoke our names with reverence and awe, for they shall know their blood is blessed—blessed!—by our greatness.
“We, we Men of the Tusk, are more. We are giants! Giants!”
Roaring exultation. Captured by the momentum of his words, Achamian found himself crying out as well. Wry to resounding … from where had this bursting passion come? He saw tears course down Esmenet’s cheek.
“So who?” Kellhus bellowed through the trailing thunder. “Who is this menial who speaks as King?”
Sudden silence. The buckled stone, with its lattice of weeds and grasses, seemed to hum. The Warrior-Prophet held out both shining hands—a welcome, an appeal, a breathtaking benediction. And he whispered …
“I am.”
Without exception, men submitted to the hierarchy of the moving and the immovable. They stood upon the earth, they travelled over the land. But with Kellhus, even this fundamental orthodoxy was upended: with his every step he seemed to carry the world with him.
So when he descended the dais and gestured to Incheiri Gotian to lead the Lords of the Holy War in prayer, it seemed the world itself was bent. As the intonations boomed between the walls, Achamian blinked the sweat from his eyes, breathed deep the humid air. He thought of Esmenet lying with such a man, and he found himself fearing for her, as if she were a petal falling into a great fire … He’s a prophet!
So what did that make of Achamian’s hate?
From paths cut through the scree, slaves produced a long table and several chairs, which they set in the centremost aisle between the columns for Kellhus and the Great Names. With the Tusk and Circumfix hanging above, they sat as if for a ritual dinner, though they drank only watered wine. Achamian stood rigid throughout the ensuing discussions. It seemed surreal, but it was the conquest of Amoteu they plotted—the approaches to Shimeh! What Kellhus had said earlier was true …they had arrived. Almost.
The proceedings were remarkably civil; gone were the days of bickering fuelled by wounded or overweening pride. Even if Saubon and Conphas had been present, Achamian couldn’t imagine any of the Great Names resorting to their old antics. Kellhus dwarfed them in a manner so absolute that, much as children, they had lost all care for the cubits between them. They were his unto death … Kings and disciples.
Disagreements arose, to be certain, but the dissenters were neither scorned nor judged for merely expressing contrary opinions. As Kellhus himself said, where Truth was tyrant, the clear-eyed need fear no oppression. Proyas, especially, asked hard questions, and old Gothyelk somehow managed to restrict his outbursts to exasperated groans. Only Chinjosa seemed to play with his number-stick beneath his hand. Reasons were demanded and given, alternatives were explored and criticized, and as though by magic, the best way seemed to unfold of its own volition.
Prince Hulwarga was given the honour of the van, since it was deemed that his Thunyeri would be the most able to weather any possible Fanim surprise. Count-Palatine Chinjosa and his Ainoni, along with Proyas and his Conriyans, were to constitute the Holy War’s main body. They would march directly on Shimeh, gathering food and siege materials as they went. Gotian and the Shrial Knights were to ride with them, as the personal guard of the Warrior-Prophet and his Sacral Retinue. Earl Gothyelk and his Tydonni, meanwhile, were given the task of isolating and overcoming Chargiddo, the Kyranean Age fortress that commanded the southwestern reaches of the Amoti and Xerashi frontier.
No one, not even Kellhus, seemed to know what the heathen had planned. All reports, especially those provided by the Scarlet Spires through Chinjosa, suggested that the Psûkari, the Cishaurim, would not abandon Shimeh. This meant that Fanayal would either contest their advance into Amoteu or fall back on the Holy City. Either way, he would give battle. The survival of the Cishaurim hung in the balance, which meant the survival of Kian hung in the balance. There could be no doubt that even now Fanayal mustered all possible means to overthrow them. Though Proyas counselled caution, the Warrior-Prophet was adamant: the Holy War must strike with all haste.
“We diminish,” he said, “while they grow.”
Several times Achamian dared glance at Esmenet in her nearby seat
. A string of discreet functionaries came and went, kneeling at her side, either asking questions or bearing tidings. By and large, however, she remained attentive to the discussions on the floor before her. Achamian found himself studying the white-robed Nascenti, who stood in a group immediately behind their Warrior-Prophet—Werjau and Gayamakri foremost among them. And the strangeness of it dawned on him, the way the Holy War, which had been little more than a migratory invasion led by a raucous council of chieftains, had somehow reorganized itself into an imperial court. This was no Council of Great and Lesser Names; Kellhus merely consulted his generals, nothing more. All of them had been … redeployed. And true to benjuka, the rules governing their conduct had been completely rewritten. Even the ones that held Achamian motionless, here, as vizier to a prophet …
It was too absurd.
The sun hung low over the humid countryside by the time Kellhus dissolved the Council. His head buzzing from the heat, Achamian waited out the obligatory prayers and rounds of self-congratulation. The combination of sun and inaction made him want to scream. Perversely, he found himself hoping that the bird from earlier did omen some kind of Consult attack. Anything but this … stage.
Then, as if everyone had suddenly found themselves in agreement, the Council was over. The stone hollows between the ruins rumbled with shouts of greeting and casual conversation. Rubbing his neck, Achamian walked to the dais steps and unceremoniously dropped to his rump. He could feel Esmenet’s gaze prickle the small of his back, but Inrithi caste-nobles were already climbing the dais to pay her homage, and he was too weary to do much more than pad the sweat from his face with his saffron sleeves.
A hand brushed his shoulder, as though someone had thought to clasp him but then reconsidered. Achamian turned to see Proyas. With his deep brown skin and silk khalat, he could have been a Kianene prince.
“Akka,” he said with a perfunctory nod.
“Proyas.”
An awkward moment passed between them.
“I thought I should tell you,” he said, obviously discomfited. “You should see Zin.”
“Did he send you?”
The Prince shook his head. He looked strange, far more mature, with his beard grown and plaited. “He asks about you,” he said lamely. “You should go see—”
“I cannot,” Achamian replied, far more sharply than he had wished. “I’m all that stands between Kellhus and the Consult. I can’t leave his side.”
Proyas’s eyes narrowed in anger, but Achamian could not help but think that something had broken within the man. With Xinemus, he had abandoned seeking penance on his terms. He was someone who would no longer discriminate between afflictions. He would bear everything if he could.
“You’ve left his side before,” Proyas said evenly.
“Only at his request, and against my objections.”
Why this sudden need to punish? Now that Proyas required something of him, he was compelled to show him a reflection of his own callous disregard—to visit his own sins upon him. Even still, even after all Kellhus had taught him, Achamian carried the old ledgers in his heart, continued to tick off settled scores. Why do I always do this?
Proyas blinked, pursed his lips as though about sour teeth. “You should go see Xinemus,” he said, this time making no attempt to disguise his bitterness. He left without saying farewell.
Too numb to think, Achamian watched the assembled caste-nobles. Gaidekki and Ingiaban fenced jokes—no surprise there. Iryssas stammered to keep up; sometimes he alone seemed unchanged from Momemn. Gotian upbraided some young Shrial Knight. Soter and several other Ainoni seemed to be laughing at the sight of Uranyanka kissing the Warrior-Prophet’s knee. Hulwarga stood mute in the shadow of his dead brother’s groom, Yalgrota. Everybody talking and belonging, forming little interlocking circles, like the links of some greater armour …
The thought struck Achamian without warning.
I’m alone.
He knew nothing of his family, save that his mother was dead. He despised his School almost as much as his School despised him. He had lost his every student, in one way or another, to the blasted Gods. Esmenet had betrayed him …
He coughed and swallowed, cursed himself for a fool. He called out to a passing slave—a surly-looking adolescent—told him to fetch some unwatered wine. See, he thought to himself as the boy ran off, you have one friend. His forearms against his knees, he stared down at his sandals, frowned at his untrimmed toenails. He thought of Xinemus. I should see him …
He did not turn when the shadow joined him sitting on the steps. The air suddenly smelled of myrrh. Somewhere, in a treacherous and juvenile part of his soul, he leapt with joy, even though he knew it wasn’t Esmenet. The shadow was too dark.
“Is it time?” Achamian asked.
“Soon,” Kellhus said.
Achamian had come to fear their nightly sessions with the Gnosis. To intuitively grasp logic or arithmetic might be a thing of wonder, but to do the same with ancient War-Cants was something altogether different. How could he not dread, when the man so effortlessly outran his ability to compare or categorize?
“What troubles you, Akka?”
What do you think? something within him spat. Instead he turned to Kellhus and asked, “Why Shimeh?”
The clear blue eyes studied him in silence.
“You say you’ve come to save us,” Achamian pressed. “You admit as much. So then why, when our doom resides in Golgotterath, do we continue on to Shimeh?”
“You’re tired,” Kellhus said. “Perhaps we should resume our studies tomorr—”
“I’m fine,” Achamian snapped, only to be dismayed by his presumption. “Sleep and Mandate Schoolmen,” he added lamely, “are old enemies.”
Kellhus nodded, smiled sadly. “Your grief … It still overcomes you.” For some treacherous reason Achamian said, “Yes.”
The numbers of Inrithi had dwindled. Several personages had gathered at a discreet distance, obviously awaiting Kellhus, but he dismissed them with a gesture. Soon Achamian and Kellhus were quite alone, sitting side by side on the dais’s lip, watching the shadows swell and congregate in the crotches of the surrounding ruin. A dry wind dropped from the skies, and for a time Achamian closed his eyes, savouring its cool kiss across his skin, listening to it whisper through the sumacs that thronged beyond the floor. An occasional bee buzzed in and out of hearing.
It reminded Achamian of hiding from his father in the gullies far from the beaches. The hush concealed between the throng of living things. The sense of slowing light. The limitless sky. It seemed a moment outside consequence, where the profound repose of what was put flight to all thoughts of past or future. He could even smell the stone as it cooled in the lengthening shadows.
It seemed impossible that Shikol had dwelt in this place.
“Did you know,” Kellhus said, “that there was a time when I listened to the world and heard only noise?”
“No…I didn’t.”
Kellhus raised his face to the sky, closed his eyes. Sunlight curled into the silky depths of his hair. “I know different now … There’s more than noise, Akka. There is voice.”
Shivers unrolled like wet strings across Achamian’s skin.
His eyes fixed on the horizon, Kellhus pressed his palms across his thighs, drawing folds into arcs. Against the silk, Achamian thought he glimpsed the golden discs about his fingers.
“Tell me, Akka,” Kellhus said. “When you look into a mirror, what do you see?” He spoke as a bored child might.
Achamian shrugged. “Myself.”
A teacher’s indulgent look. “Are you so certain? Do you see yourself looking through your eyes, or do you simply see your eyes? Strip away your assumptions, Akka, and ask yourself, what do you really see?”
“My eyes,” he admitted. “I simply see my eyes.”
“Then you don’t see yourself.”
Achamian could only stare at his profile, dumbfounded.
Kellhus’s grin shouted inte
llectual mischief. “So where are you, if you can’t be seen?”
“Here,” Achamian replied after a moment of hesitation. “I’m here.”
“And just where is this ‘here’?”
“It’s …” He frowned for a moment. “It’s here … inside what you see.”
“Here? But how could you be here,” Kellhus laughed, “when I’m here, and you’re over there?”
“But …” Achamian scratched his beard in exasperation. “You play games with words!” he exclaimed.
Kellhus nodded, his expression at once cryptic and bemused. “Imagine,” he said, “that you could take the Great Ocean, in all its immensity, and fold it into the form and proportion of a man. There are depths, Akka, that go in rather than down—in without limit. What you call the Outside lies within us, and it’s everywhere. This is why, no matter where we stand, it’s always here. No matter where we dare tread, we always stand in the same place.”
Metaphysics, Achamian realized. He spoke of metaphysics.
“Here,” Achamian repeated. “You’re saying here is a place outside place?”
“Indeed. Your body is your surface, nothing more, the point where your soul breaches this world. Even now, as we look upon each other from across this span, from two different places, we also stand in the same place, the same nowhere. I watch myself through your eyes, and you watch yourself through mine—though you know it not.”
Somehow, at some point, insight had become a species of horror. He fairly stammered. “W-we′re the same person?” Kellhus was speaking this madness … Kellhus!
“Person? It would be more precise to say we’re the same here … But in a manner, yes. Just as there’s but one Here, there’s but one Soul, Akka, breaching the world in many different places. And almost always failing to apprehend itself as itself.”
Nilnameshi foolishness! It had to be …
“This is just metaphysics,” he said, the very instant Kellhus whispered, “This is just metaphysics …”
The Thousandfold Thought Page 27
