The Thousandfold Thought Part 24

Laughing, he thought of the Dunyain and how, upon their fatal reunion, this would overthrow him.

He tried-once-to share these ruminations with Serwe and the others, but they could offer him only the simulacrum of understanding. How could they fathom his depths when they themselves possessed none? They were not bottomless holes holes in the world, as he was. They were animate, yet they did not live, not truly. They, he realized with no little horror, in the world, as he was. They were animate, yet they did not live, not truly. They, he realized with no little horror, had no souls had no souls. They dwelt utterly within the world.

And for no reason, his love of them-his love of her-became all the more fierce.

Several more days pa.s.sed before they sighted the first true peaks of the Betmulla, though Cnaiur suspected they had crossed out of Enathpaneah sometime earlier. They made toward them, intending to traverse the great sloping ap.r.o.ns piled across their northern faces. They crossed a rugged tableland, then followed the winding course of a braided stream, riding beneath the bowers of water birches. As the mountains loomed ever greater and darker above them, Cnaiur could not help but recall the Hethantas and his harsh use of Serwe. He had been a fool then, a free man trying to make himself a slave of his people, but he knew not the words that would make her understand.

"Our child," he called lamely, "was conceived in mountains like these."

When she said nothing, he cursed himself and the sensitivities of women.

Later that afternoon, one of their horses was lamed descending a slope of earth and shale. They left it behind rather than put it down, for fear of vultures giving their path away. Leading their mounts, they continued long into the darkness, exploiting the preternatural sight of the skin-spies. Barring disaster, there was no way the fires behind them, no matter how dread their abstraction, could hope to overtake them.

Come morning, the ramps of the Betmulla towered into the southwestern sky. They came across a dead lake, its depths swollen with crimson algal blooms. Not far away, on a promontory rising from a pure stand of canyon oak, they found the ruined footings of some shrine. Faceless forms jutted from the rolling carpets of fallen leaves. An artesian spring trickled from the altar, and they refilled their skins. Some kind of deer grazed the slopes about the lake, and with great mirth Cnaiur watched Serwe and her brothers run a juvenile down on foot alone. Afterward, he stumbled across some cousin of orpine while making mud in the brush. The tubers, though far from ready, tasted delicious with the venison.

Their fire, as small as it was, proved a mistake. The wind was blowing directly from the west, across the lake. The skin-spies smelled them first, but far too late.

"They come," Serwe said suddenly, looking to her brothers. Within a heartbeat, it seemed, the two of them vanished into the canopy's recesses. Then Cnaiur heard the distinctive snort and chop of horses labouring up a humus slope, the clink and clatter of gear filtering through the gloomy interior of the wood.

Knowing Serwe would follow, he sprinted up to the flat foundation of the shrine. The first of the Kidruhil cleared the oaks just as he turned upon the lip. They began hooting when they caught sight of him. Dozens materialized behind them, their uncaparisoned mounts throwing spittle from their bits as they worked their heads up and down. The Kidruhil in the forward ranks drew their longswords- A shriek pealed through the trees.

Cnaiur saw cavalrymen yank on their reins, wheel their mounts about in confusion. He saw one fall, a crimson smear where his face should be ... They were looking up now, shouting in alarm. Then Cnaiur glimpsed them, the brothers, sweeping down and out of the layered canopy, scooping up lives every time. The rearmost Kidruhil were panicking now.

To a man those galloping toward him were looking over their shoulders, veering to their right as they slowed. Cnaiur could hear an officer shouting, "Out of the trees! Out of the trees!" But his men needed no encouragement, they were already pounding across the smoking campsite. Riderless horses scattered in all directions.

Then Cnaiur noticed the bows ... recurved, like the Scylvendi, drawn from lacquered leather cases set low and back on their saddles-also just like the Scylvendi. Renewing their shouts, the Kidruhil fanned back up the slope, guiding their mounts with spur and knee. The first three drew and released, raising and lowering their bows in the draw-again, just like the People. Serwe swept her arms in front of him, batting the first shaft from his path, ignoring the second, which whistled past him, and catching the third in the meat of her forearm.

Stunned, Cnaiur stepped back, fell to one knee. There was no cover.

"Serwe!" he cried.

The Kidruhil had split into two streams, one to each side of the shrine. Instinctively, Cnaiur scrambled to the back left corner of the ancient platform, crouched low, using the angles to s.h.i.+eld himself from one band while exposing himself to the other. Almost immediately the riders to his left galloped into view, yelling "Hup-hup-hup!" to their horses, raising their bows ...

Somehow, Serwe was in front of him. For an instant she stood, a poised beauty, arms out, flaxen hair gleaming in the mountain sun- She danced for him.

s.h.i.+elding, leaping, striking. She kept her back turned to him, as though in observance of some ritual modesty. Her sleeves snapped like leather. Shafts clattered across the platform. Others buzzed about his shoulders and head. She dipped, rolled her arms about. A shaft appeared in the palm of her hand. She kicked, swung her heel down from her raised knee. A shaft jutted from her calf. The fletching of two more materialized in her back. She cartwheeled, kicked an arrow away even as three others thudded into her chest and abdomen. She cycled her hands outward, batted away four in succession, threw her head back, thrust out her arms, caught one in the back of her right hand. Another in her left forearm.

She jerked her head to the left. An arrowhead popped from the back of her neck. She whimpered, as a little girl might.

But she never ceased moving. Blood flew out in beads and lines, flashed in arcs beneath the sun.

Meanwhile the chorus of shouts and cries grew louder and louder. A horn pealed out, then was cut short. But Cnaiur could see nothing save her dance. Limbs lithe and pale beneath threads of crimson, pierced and weeping. The linen of her s.h.i.+ft taut and b.l.o.o.d.y about her swaying b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Serwe Serwe ... ...

His prize.

The cries faltered. Hooves rumbled down the slopes ...

She stopped. As though preparing for prayer, she slumped to one knee. She craned her head forward, silently gagging. She raised a pierced arm, snapped the birch shaft in her mouth. Her motions were deliberate-stiff. She reached back, fumbled for the arrowhead jutting from the base of her skull, pulled the shaft clear on a stream of blood.

Then she turned to look at him. Her smiling eyes s.h.i.+mmered with tears. She tried to wipe at the blood pulsing from her lips, only to scratch her neck with the arrow piercing her hand. She looked at him, unpuzzled, then slouched forward across the platform. Cnaiur heard the pop of buried wood.

"Serwe!" he cried.

When he shook her, her perfect face fell apart.

Numb, desolate, he stood, stared in horror at the carnage across the slopes. The brothers stood amid the dead Nansur, watching him without expression. Both had several arrows buried in their limbs, but they seemed ... unconcerned.

Over a dozen riderless horses wandered the near distance, but he could see no sign of the Kidruhil.

"We must bury her," he called.

Serwe helped him.

CHAPTER TEN.

XERASH.

Souls can no more see the origins of their thought than they can see the backs of their heads or the insides of their entrails. And since souls cannot differentiate what they cannot see, there is a peculiar sense in which the soul cannot self-differentiate. So it is always, in a peculiar sense, the same time when they think, the same place where they think, and the same individual who does the thinking. Like tipping a spiral on its side until only a circle can be seen, the pa.s.sage of moments always remains now, the carnival of s.p.a.ces always sojourns here, and the succession of people always becomes me. The truth is, if the soul could apprehend itself the itself the way it apprehended the world-if it could apprehend its origins-it would see that there is no now, there is no here, and there is no me. In other words, it would realize way it apprehended the world-if it could apprehend its origins-it would see that there is no now, there is no here, and there is no me. In other words, it would realize that just that just as there is no circle, there is no soul. as there is no circle, there is no soul.

-MEMGOWA, CELESTIAL APHORISMS

You are fallen from Him like sparks from the flame. A dark wind blows, and you are soon to flicker out.

-SONGS 6:33, THE CHRONICLE OF THE TUSK

Early Spring, 4112 Year-of-the-Tusk, Xerash

The long mule-trains of the Scarlet Spires finally arrived several days into the siege of Gerotha. As though on cue, a new emba.s.sy issued from the city-this one walking in the manner of abject pet.i.tioners. The gates were not closed behind them. As the Warrior-Prophet had promised, the ancient capital of Xerash had capitulated of her own accord.

As a gift, the emba.s.sy brought the twelve heads of those who had orchestrated the earlier closing of the gates, including that of Captain Hebarata, who had mortally offended the Warrior-Prophet. But the Lords of the Holy War were not appeased, and the Warrior-Prophet spoke harshly to the Gerothans, saying that some example had to be set, some sacrifice made, both to atone for and to warn against what had happened. As though justice were to be found in the clarity of proportion, he announced his Toll of Days, saying that since four days had pa.s.sed since Gerotha had shut its gates against him, so four out of ten Gerothans had to forfeit their lives.

"By dawn's light tomorrow," he decreed, "twenty thousand heads must be hung from the battlements of your city walls. If you do not do this, verily you shall all perish."

That night, while the Holy War celebrated, all Gerotha screamed. Dawn's light found her walls slicked in blood, their entire circuit ornamented with severed heads, thousands of them, either bundled in fis.h.i.+ng nets or strung through the jaw along hanging ropes of hemp. When the heads were counted, it was found that the Gerothans had exceeded their measure by 3,056.

In all of Xerash, no city, town, or fortress would bar her gates against the Holy War again.

Athjeari, meanwhile, became the first Lord of the Holy War to enter the Sacred Lands. Some time pa.s.sed before he and his Gaenri realized they had actually entered Holy Amoteu. There was little to distinguish the Xeras.h.i.+-or the Sons of s.h.i.+kol, as they called them-from the Amoti in appearance or tongue. They crossed the tablelands of Jarta, whose people had once waged generational war against the ancient Amoti, then descended into a war of their own.

With no more than five hundred thanes and knights, Athjeari battled his way ever deeper into Holy Amoteu. His sunburned Galeoth found the Amoti to be treacherous and supportive by turns. Though most called themselves Fanim, they had no love of the Kianene, and after months of dreadful rumours many thought the idolaters and their False Prophet invincible. The Padirajah himself had fallen. The great Kascamandri was dead, and here came none other than the mercurial kinsmen of Saudoun, the ruthless Blond Beast of Enathpaneah.

There were encounters at Gim, the famed Anothrite Shrine, Mer-Porasas ... Athjeari himself was wounded in the knee at Girameh, where the Latter Prophet's mother had been born. Soon their blood-smeared standard, a Circ.u.mfix over the Red Horse of Gaenri, became a general sign of panic and terror. And though Fanayal sent more and more of his Grandees to hunt him, the Earl of Gaenri either vanished or, even worse, prevailed.

Hurall'arkeet, the desert men began to call him-the "Wind Has Teeth." the desert men began to call him-the "Wind Has Teeth."

Finally, on the Day of Palms, the iron-clad knights rode into Besral, the ancestral home of the Latter Prophet's now-extinct line. Though the Inrithi mission had fled long ago, many Amoti gathered to cheer the haggard wayfarers.

For such hearts, they told one another, had to be holy.

They walked before him, talking as though oblivious to Achamian's presence mere paces behind.

Esmenet and Kellhus.

What was already being called the Toll of Days had been exacted, and the city was strangely mute, either for the want of voices or out of collective shock. Along the visible length of the alley, onlookers shrank or fell to their knees. The Xeras.h.i.+ in particular were careful to keep their black-ringed eyes to the ground as the Sacral Retinue filed past. The Warrior-Prophet toured Gerotha as much to be seen, Achamian imagined, as to inspect his prize.

In The Tractate, The Tractate, Gerotha was sometimes called The City of a Hundred Villages, and after two thousand years the epithet still suited. The alleys were as narrow and as numerous as those of the Worm in Carythusal. But unlike the Worm, where the ways followed the illogic of countless disconnected decisions over countless years, these continually converged onto what the Xeras.h.i.+ called "smalls"-miniature bazaars where the sun actually baked the cobbles-as if Gerotha were indeed a collection of intertwined villages, grown into one another like spots of mould on bread. Gerotha was sometimes called The City of a Hundred Villages, and after two thousand years the epithet still suited. The alleys were as narrow and as numerous as those of the Worm in Carythusal. But unlike the Worm, where the ways followed the illogic of countless disconnected decisions over countless years, these continually converged onto what the Xeras.h.i.+ called "smalls"-miniature bazaars where the sun actually baked the cobbles-as if Gerotha were indeed a collection of intertwined villages, grown into one another like spots of mould on bread.

Esmenet had been telling Kellhus of her morning audience with the Scarlet Spires. According to Saurnemmi, routine remained the rule in Joktha, either because or in spite of the Scylvendi's harsh ways. Otherwise, Eleazaras claimed to have spoken to Palatine Uranyanka personally, warning him of the arcane consequences of any sedition, perceived or otherwise. "The Grandmaster," she said, "wanted me to a.s.sure you that the Palatine of Moserathu will cause you no more troubles."

Achamian could only watch and listen with dismay and admiration. It was a marvel to see her thus. There was her appearance, of course, her hair pinned in a jewelled brace, her gown-a Kianene chiton-sewn for the courts and pleasure gardens of the White Sun Palace in Nenciphon. But there was her bearing as well. Upright. Guileless. Penetrating and ironic. She was a match, and an easy one at that, for her new-found station.

It made breathing difficult. I have to stop this! I have to stop this!

Before, it had been just the two of them. Before, he could simply reach out, place a relaxed hand upon her waist, and she would turn into his arms. Now everything had been put to rout. Somehow, Kellhus had become the centre, the waystation that all must cross to find one another-to find themselves. Somehow everything had been dragged into the brilliant light of his judgement. And now Achamian found himself trailing after them, them, like some heartbroken beggar ... like some heartbroken beggar ...

Why would she call him strong?

"Eleazaras insulted you," Kellhus said, turning to her, so that Achamian could see his bearded profile. He wore a magnificent sleeved gabardine over his tunic-an ornamental version of those worn by the Girgas.h.i.+-with vertical bands of gold that flashed whenever he walked through sunlight. It looked altered about the shoulders, as one might expect given the dead Padirajah's reputed bulk.

"He fairly called me a wh.o.r.e," Esmenet said.

"You should expect such. You're unfamiliar coin to them."

Her smile was bland and cynical. "So where's the moneychanger?"

Kellhus laughed. Achamian watched the gratification break across the faces of those about him. Some of them laughed as well, creating a melancholy echo. Everywhere Kellhus went, a part of him pa.s.sed through others. Like a stone tossed into calm waters.

"Men are simple," he replied. "They think primarily in terms of things, things, not relations. This is why they think it's the gold or silver that makes coins valuable, not the not relations. This is why they think it's the gold or silver that makes coins valuable, not the obedience obedience they command. Tell them the Nilnames.h.i.+ use pottery for their coins and they scoff." they command. Tell them the Nilnames.h.i.+ use pottery for their coins and they scoff."

"Or," Esmenet said, "that the Warrior-Prophet uses a woman."

A sliver of suns.h.i.+ne flickered across her, and for an instant everything about her, from the pleats along her chiton to her red-painted lips, gleamed silk. The two of them seemed something otherworldly in that moment-too beautiful, too pure, pure, for the dingy brick and unkempt hearts that surrounded them. for the dingy brick and unkempt hearts that surrounded them.

"Exactly," Kellhus said. "They ask, 'Where's the gold?'" He grinned at her sidelong. "Or in your case ..."

" Wheres the thumb thumb? " Esmenet said ruefully.

Thumb. Sumni slang for "phallus." Why did it pain him so, listening to her speak in the old way?

Kellhus grinned. "They can't see that gold is only relevant insofar as it plays a role within our expectations-insofar as we make it relevant we make it relevant ..." He paused, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "The same," he continued, "might be said of thumbs." ..." He paused, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "The same," he continued, "might be said of thumbs."

Esmenet grimaced. "Even one named Eleazaras?"

The Sacral Retinue had crowded to a stop. They had come to one of the many smalls that knotted the labyrinthine alleyways of Gerotha. Blank faces seemed to watch from every window. A few Men of the Tusk gazed adoring from their knees. The ever-present guardsmen of the Hundred Pillars stood pensive, staring down adjoining alleys as though they could see around corners. Someone had painted lotus vine along the weathered cornices of several buildings. A babe cried.

Shaking his leonine head, the Warrior-Prophet laughed to the heavens. And though Achamian could feel the laughter's contagion, its preternatural demand demand to celebrate things great and small, grief struck all breath from him. Anasurimbor Esmenet glanced about, her look shy with joy. Her eyes clicked away the instant she met his desolate gaze. to celebrate things great and small, grief struck all breath from him. Anasurimbor Esmenet glanced about, her look shy with joy. Her eyes clicked away the instant she met his desolate gaze.

She took her husband's hand.

Charaoth. The ancient stronghold of the Xeras.h.i.+ Kings.

The Lords of the Holy War gathered in its ruined halls, staring about in wonder and impatience as they awaited their Warrior-Prophet. Achamian overheard Palatine Gaidekki claiming that King s.h.i.+kol's raving could be heard on the night wind. He saw a man-some client of Gothyelk's-gathering chips of marble into a cloth.

As the only feature visible above Gerotha's black curtain walls, Achamian had found himself pondering Charaoth from the first day of the Holy War's siege. He knew it had been abandoned with the ascendancy of the Thousand Temples in the days of the Ceneian Empire, but he had always a.s.sumed that the Fanim would have demolished it. Afterward he would learn from Gayamakri that the Kianene actually revered it as one of their holiest shrines. And why not, when so many Inrithi thought it the very heart of malevolence?

The original walls had been pulled down, so that from within Gerotha's bone-coloured expanse could be clearly seen. The voluptuous imprint of Nilnamesh was unmistakable, in the bellied columns and pilasters, in the curving stairs that ended nowhere, and in the four-winged Ciphrang that flanked every threshold. Even roofless and ruined, the architecture seemed over-heavy, though in a manner strangely at odds with the post-and-lintel monstrosities of ancient Kyraneas or s.h.i.+gek. The surviving shoulder-arches proved that the antique Xeras.h.i.+ builders had understood the rudiments of stress and load. But the heaviness was different, as though everything had been constructed to bear weights unseen.

Could it simply be that s.h.i.+kol s.h.i.+kol had once ruled from this place? Like most Inrithi children, Achamian had been weaned on tales of the lecherous old king. "Behave," his mother always warned, "or he will find you, do unspeakable things!" had once ruled from this place? Like most Inrithi children, Achamian had been weaned on tales of the lecherous old king. "Behave," his mother always warned, "or he will find you, do unspeakable things!"

Achamian waited, doing his best to ignore Esmenet, who sat on a gilded chair not four paces to his left. He stood on the broad arc of what had been the dais of the primary audience hall. A series of steps and a ring of pilasters, their false lintels still intact, separated it from the great floor. According to The Tractate, The Tractate, the Xeras.h.i.+ Kings had ruled from their beds, and s.h.i.+kol in particular was famed for making sport with children as his court peered through the sheers ringing his dais. Knowing the way histories tended to paint their antagonists, Achamian had always dismissed the tale as propaganda. But there, dead centre in the dais, was an ancient stone footing for what looked like a bed. the Xeras.h.i.+ Kings had ruled from their beds, and s.h.i.+kol in particular was famed for making sport with children as his court peered through the sheers ringing his dais. Knowing the way histories tended to paint their antagonists, Achamian had always dismissed the tale as propaganda. But there, dead centre in the dais, was an ancient stone footing for what looked like a bed.

Probably an altar of some kind.

Across the great floor below, the Great and Lesser Names milled beneath the fat columns, decked in the regalia of the lands they had conquered. White banners bearing the Tusk and Circ.u.mfix in black and gold had been roped between the free-standing columns about them. The rumble of their talk thinned. Wondering whether they had glimpsed Kellhus, Achamian glanced over his shoulder, following the stair that rose from the dais's rear to the ruined gallery above and behind him. He saw nothing of Kellhus, though he spied something, a point of fluttering black, hanging over the distant network of streets and alleyways that rose up into the haze. He blinked, frowning ... Was that the Mark Mark he sensed? he sensed?

A sorcerous bird?

"We have arrived, arrived," a resonant voice called.