The Thousandfold Thought Part 5

The words were his own, spoken that first night about the fire with Kellhus and Serwe beneath Momemn. In a rush, Achamian recalled the sprained wonder of that night, the sense of having discovered something at once horrific and ineluctable. And those eyes, like lucid jewels set in the mud of the world, watching from across the flames-the same eyes that watched him this very moment ... though a different fire now burned between them.

The abomination howled.

"There was a time," Kellhus continued, "when you were lost." His voice seethed with what seemed an inaudible thunder. "There was a time when you thought to yourself, 'There's no meaning, only love. There's no world ...'"

And Achamian heard himself whisper, "Only her."

Esmenet. The Wh.o.r.e of Sumna.

Even now, murder stared from his sockets. He couldn't blink without seeing them together, without glimpsing her eyes wide with bliss, her mouth open, his chest arching back, s.h.i.+ning with her sweat ... He need only speak, Achamian knew, and it would be all over. He need only sing, and the whole world would burn.

"Not I, not even Esmenet, can undo what you suffer, Akka. Your degradation is your own."

Those grasping grasping eyes! Something within Achamian shrank from them, beseeched him to throw up his arms. eyes! Something within Achamian shrank from them, beseeched him to throw up his arms. He must not see! He must not see!

"What are you saying?" Achamian cried.

Kellhus had become a shadow beneath a tear-splintered sun. At long last he turned to the obscenity writhing across the tree, its face clutching at sun and sky.

"This, Akka ..." There was a blankness to his words, as though he offered them up as parchment, to be rewritten as Achamian wished. "This is your test."

"We shall cut you from your meat!" the obscenity howled. the obscenity howled. "From your meat!" "From your meat!"

"You, Drusas Achamian, are a Mandate Schoolman."

After Kellhus left him, Achamian stumbled to one of the ma.s.sive dolmens, leaned against it, and vomited into the gra.s.ses about its base. Then he fled through the blooming trees, past the guards on the portico. He found some kind of pillared vestibule, a vacant niche. Without thinking, he crawled into the shadowy gap between wall and column. He hugged his knees, his shoulders, but he could find no sense of shelter.

Nothing was concealed. Nothing was hidden. They believed me dead! How could they know? They believed me dead! How could they know?

But he's a prophet ... Isn't he?

How could he not not know? How- know? How- Achamian laughed, stared with idiot eyes at the dim geometries painted across the ceiling. He ran a palm over his forehead, fingers through his hair. The skin-spy continued to thrash and bark in his periphery.

"Year One," he whispered.

CHAPTER TWO.

CARASKAND.

I tell you, guilt dwells nowhere but in the eyes of the accuser. This men know even as they deny it, which is why they so often make murder their absolution. The truth of crime lies not with the victim but with the witness.

-HATATIAN, EXHORTATIONS

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

Servants and functionaries screamed and scattered as Cnaiur barged past them with his hostage. Alarums had been raised throughout the palace-he could hear them shouting-but none of the fools knew what to do. He had saved their precious Prophet. Did that not make him divine as well? He would have laughed had not his sneer been a thing of iron. If only they knew!

He halted at a juncture in the marmoreal halls, jerked the girl about by the throat. "Which way?" he snarled.

She sobbed and gasped, looked with wide, panicked eyes down the hallway to their right. He had seized a Kianene slave, knowing she would care more for her skin than her soul. The poison had struck too deep with the Zaudunyani.

Dunyain poison.

"Door!" she cried, gagging. "There-there!"

Her neck felt good in his hand, like that of a cat or a feeble dog. It reminded him of the days of pilgrimage in his other life, when he had strangled those he raped. Even still, he had no need of her, so he released his grip, watched her stumble backward then topple, skirts askew, across the black floor.

Shouts rang out from the galleries behind them.

He sprinted to the door she'd indicated, kicked it open.

The crib stood in the nursery's centre, carved of wood like black rock, standing as high as his waist, and draped with gauze sheets that hung from a single hook set in the frescoed ceiling. The walls were ochre, the lamp-light dim. The room smelled of sandalwood-there was no hint of soil.

All the world seemed to hush as he circled the ornate cradle. He left no track across the cityscapes woven into the carpet beneath his feet. The lamplights fluttered, but nothing more. With the crib between himself and the entrance, he approached, parted the gauze with his right hand.

Moenghus.

White-skinned. Still young enough to clutch his toes. Eyes at once vacant and lucid, in the way only an infant's could be. The penetrating white-blue of the Steppe.

My son.

Cnaiur reached out two fingers, saw the scars banding the length of his forearm. The babe waved his hands, and as though by accident caught Cnaiur's fingertip, his grip firm like that of a father or friend in miniature. Without warning, his face flushed, became wizened with anguished wrinkles. He sputtered, began wailing.

Why, Cnaiur wondered, would the Dunyain keep this child? What did he see when he looked upon it? What use use was there in a child? was there in a child?

There was no interval between the world and an infant soul. No deception. No language. An infant's wail simply was was its hunger. And it occurred to Cnaiur that if he abandoned this child, it would become an Inrithi, but if he took it, stole away, and rode hard for the Steppe, it would become a Scylvendi. And his hair p.r.i.c.kled across his scalp, for there was magic in that-even doom. its hunger. And it occurred to Cnaiur that if he abandoned this child, it would become an Inrithi, but if he took it, stole away, and rode hard for the Steppe, it would become a Scylvendi. And his hair p.r.i.c.kled across his scalp, for there was magic in that-even doom.

This wail would not always be one with the child's hunger. The interval would lengthen, and the tracks between its soul and its expression would multiply, become more and more unfathomable. This singular need would be unbraided into a thousand strands of l.u.s.t and hope, bound into a thousand knots of fear and shame. And it would wince beneath the upraised hand of the father, sigh at the soft touch of the mother. It would become what circ.u.mstance demanded. Inrithi or Scylvendi ...

It did not matter.

And suddenly, improbably, Cnaiur understood what it was the Dunyain saw: a world world of infant men, their wails beaten into words, into tongues, into nations. Kellhus could see the measure of the interval, he could follow the thousand tracks. And of infant men, their wails beaten into words, into tongues, into nations. Kellhus could see the measure of the interval, he could follow the thousand tracks. And that that was his magic, his sorcery: he could close the interval, answer the wail ... Make souls one with their expression. was his magic, his sorcery: he could close the interval, answer the wail ... Make souls one with their expression.

As his father had before him. Moenghus.

Stupefied, Cnaiur gazed at the kicking figure, felt the tug of its tiny hand about his finger. And he realized that though the child had sprung from his loins, it was more his his father than otherwise. It was his origin, and he, Cnaiur urs Skiotha, was nothing but one of its possibilities, a wail transformed into a chorus of tortured screams. father than otherwise. It was his origin, and he, Cnaiur urs Skiotha, was nothing but one of its possibilities, a wail transformed into a chorus of tortured screams.

He remembered a villa deep in the Nansurium, burning with a brightness that had turned the surrounding night into black. Wheeling to the laughing calls of his cousins, he had caught a babe on sword point ...

He yanked his finger free. In fits and starts, Moenghus fell silent. "You are not of the land," Cnaiur grated, drawing high a scarred fist.

"Scylvendi!" a voice cried out. He turned, saw the sorcerer's wh.o.r.e standing on the threshold of an adjoining chamber. For a heartbeat they simply stared at each other, equally dumbfounded.

"You will not will not!" she suddenly cried, her voice shrill with fury. She advanced into the nursery, and Cnaiur found himself stepping back from the crib. He did not breathe, but then it seemed he no longer needed to.

"He's all that remains of Serwe, Serwe," she said, her voice more wary, more conciliatory. "All that's left ... Proof that she was was. Would you take that from her as well?"

Her proof.

Cnaiur stared at Esmenet in horror, then glanced at the child, pink and writhing in blue silk sheets.

"But its name name!" he heard someone cry. Surely the voice was too womanish, too weak, to be his.

Something's wrong with me ... Something's wrong ...

Her brows furrowed and she seemed about to speak, but at that instant the first of the guardsmen, garbed in the green-and-gold surcoat of the Hundred Pillars, burst through the shambles of the door Cnaiur had kicked in.

"Sheathe your weapons!" she cried as they tumbled into the chamber. They turned to her, stunned. "Sheathe!" "Sheathe!" she repeated. Their swords were lowered and stowed, though their hands remained ready upon the pommels. One of the guardsmen, an officer, began to protest, but Esmenet silenced him with a furious look. "The Scylvendi came only to kneel," she said, turning her painted face to Cnaiur, "to honour the first-born son of the Warrior-Prophet." she repeated. Their swords were lowered and stowed, though their hands remained ready upon the pommels. One of the guardsmen, an officer, began to protest, but Esmenet silenced him with a furious look. "The Scylvendi came only to kneel," she said, turning her painted face to Cnaiur, "to honour the first-born son of the Warrior-Prophet."

And Cnaiur found that he was on his knees before the crib, his eyes blank, dry, and so very wide.

It seemed he had never stood.

Xinemus sat at Achamian's battered desk, squarely facing a wall whose fresco had largely sloughed away; aside from a speared leopard, random eyes and limbs were all that remained. "What are you doing?" he asked.

Achamian wilfully ignored the warning in his tone. He spoke to his humble belongings, which he had spread across his bed. "I already told you, Zin ... I'm gathering my things, going to the Fama Palace." Esmenet had always teased him about the way he packed, for taking inventories of what he could count on his fingers. "Better hike your tunic," "Better hike your tunic," she would always say. she would always say. "The little things are the easiest to forget." "The little things are the easiest to forget."

A b.i.t.c.h in heat ... What else could she be?

"But Proyas has forgiven you."

This time he noticed the Marshal's tone, but it caught his ire more than his concern. All the man did was drink anymore. "I haven't forgiven Proyas."

"And me?" Xinemus finally said. "What of me me?"

Achamian's scalp p.r.i.c.kled. There was always something about the way drunks said me me. He turned to the man, trying to remind himself that this was his friend ... his only friend.

"What of you?" he asked. "Proyas still has need of your counsel, your wisdom. You You have a place here. I don't." have a place here. I don't."

"That isn't what I meant, Akka."

"But why would I ..." Achamian trailed, suddenly realizing what his friend had in fact meant. He was accusing Achamian of abandoning him. Even still, after everything that had happened, the man dared blame. Achamian turned back to his pathetic estate.

As though his life weren't madness enough.

"Why don't you come with me?" he ventured, only to be shocked by the insincerity of his tone. "We can ... we can talk talk ... talk with Kellhus." ... talk with Kellhus."

"What need would Kellhus have of me?"

"You need, Zin. You need to talk with him. You need-" need, Zin. You need to talk with him. You need-"

Somehow, Xinemus had vacated the desk without making a sound. Now he loomed over Achamian, wild-haired, ghastly for more than the absence of his eyes.

"You talk to him!" the Marshal roared, seizing and shaking him. Achamian clawed at his arms, but they were as wood. "I begged you! Remember? I the Marshal roared, seizing and shaking him. Achamian clawed at his arms, but they were as wood. "I begged you! Remember? I begged, and you watched while they gouged out my f.u.c.king eyes begged, and you watched while they gouged out my f.u.c.king eyes! My f.u.c.king eyes, Akka! My f.u.c.king eyes are gone gone!"

Achamian found himself on the hard floor, scrambling backward, his face covered in warm spittle.

The great-limbed man sagged to his knees. "I can't seeeee!" "I can't seeeee!" he at once whispered and wailed. he at once whispered and wailed. "I-haven't-the-courage-I-haven't-the-courage ..." "I-haven't-the-courage-I-haven't-the-courage ..." He shook silently for several more moments, then became very still. When he next spoke, his voice was thick, but eerily disconnected from what had racked him only moments before. It was the voice of the old Xinemus, and it terrified Achamian. He shook silently for several more moments, then became very still. When he next spoke, his voice was thick, but eerily disconnected from what had racked him only moments before. It was the voice of the old Xinemus, and it terrified Achamian.

"You need to talk to him for me, Akka. To Kellhus ..."

Achamian lacked the will either to move or to hope. He felt bound to the floor by his own entrails.

"What do you want me to say?"

The first flutter of the eyes against the morning light. The first tasted breath. The drowsy ache of cheek against pillow. These, and these alone, connected Esmenet to the woman-the wh.o.r.e-she had once been.

Sometimes she would forget. Sometimes she would awaken to the old sensations: the anxiousness floating through her limbs, the reek of her bedding, the ache of her s.e.x-once she had even heard the tink-tinktinking of the copper-smithies from the adjoining street. Then she would bolt erect, and muslin sheets would whisk from her skin. She would blink, peer across the dim chamber at the heroic narratives warring across her walls, and she would focus on her body-slaves-three adolescent Kianene girls-prostrate on the floor, their foreheads pressed down in morning Submission.

Today was no different. Squinting in disorientation, Esmenet arose to the fussing of their hands. They chattered in their curiously soothing tongue, venturing to explain what they said in broken Sheyic only when their tone prompted Esmenet to fix one of them-usually Fanas.h.i.+la-with a curious look. They brushed out her hair with combs of bone, rubbed life back into her legs and arms with quick little palms, then waited patiently as she urinated behind her privacy screen. Afterward, they attended to her bath in the adjacent chamber, scrubbing her with soaps, oiling and sc.r.a.ping her skin.

As always, Esmenet endured their ministrations with quiet wonder. She was generous with her praise, delighted them with her own expressions of delight. They heard the gossip, Esmenet knew, in the slaves' mess. They understood that captivity possessed its own hierarchy of rank and privilege. As slaves to a queen, they had become queens-of a sort-to their fellow slaves. Perhaps they were as astounded as she was.

She emerged from the baths light-headed, slack-limbed, and suffused with that sense of murky well-being only hot water could instill. They dressed first her then her hair, and Esmenet laughed at their banter. Yel and Burulan teased Fanas.h.i.+la-who possessed that outspoken earnestness that condemned so many to be the b.u.t.t of endless jokes-with lighthearted mercilessness. About some boy, Esmenet imagined.

When they were finished, Fanas.h.i.+la left for the nursery, while Yel and Burulan, still t.i.ttering, ushered Esmenet to her night table, and to an array of cosmetics that, she realized with some dismay, would have made her weep back in Sumna. Even as she marvelled at the brushes, paints, and powders, she worried over this new-found jealousy for things. I deserve this, I deserve this, she thought, only to curse herself for blinking tears. she thought, only to curse herself for blinking tears.

Yel and Burulan fell silent.