“But I thought he counselled …” She paused, suddenly uncertain as to the propriety of her words. Achamian had always complained of her forward manner with caste-nobles …
“Counselled me on war?” Proyas shook his head, and for a brief instant she could see why Achamian had loved him. It was so strange, being with those he’d once known. Somehow it made his absence at once palpable and easier to bear.
He was real. He had left his mark. The world remembered.
“After Kellhus explained what happened at Anwurat,” the Prince continued, “the Council hailed Cnaiür as the author of our victory. The Priests of Gilgaöl even declared him Battle-Celebrant. But he would have nothing of it …”
The Prince took another deep draught of wine. “He finds it unbearable, I think …”
“As a Scylvendi among Inrithi?”
Proyas shook his head, set his empty bowl curiously close to his right foot.
“Liking us,” he said.
Without further word he stood and excused himself. He bowed to Kellhus, thanked Serwë for the wine and her gracious company, then without so much as glancing at Esmenet, strode off into the darkness.
Serwë stared at her feet. Kellhus seemed lost in otherworldly ruminations. Esmenet sat silently for a time, her face burning, her limbs and thoughts itching with a peculiar hum. It was always peculiar, even though she knew it as well as the taste of her own mouth.
Shame.
Everywhere she went. It was her characteristic stink.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the two of them.
What was she doing here? What could she offer other than humiliation? She was polluted—polluted! And here she stayed with Kellhus? With Kellhus? What kind of fool was she? She couldn’t change who she was, no sooner than she could wash the tattoo from the back of her hand! The seed she could rinse away, but not the sin! Not the sin!
And he was … He was …
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry!”
Esmenet fled the fire, crawled into the solitary darkness of her tent. Of his tent! Akka’s!
Kellhus came to her not long after, and she cursed herself for hoping he would.
“I wish I were dead,” she whispered, lying face first against the ground.
“So do many.”
Always implacable honesty. Could she follow where he led? Had she the strength?
“I’ve only loved two people in my life, Kellhus …”
The Prince never looked away. “And they’re both dead.”
She nodded, blinked tears.
“You don’t know my sins, Kellhus. You don’t know the darknesses I harbour in my heart.”
“Then tell me.”
They talked long into the night, and a strange dispassion moved her, rendering the extremities of her life—death, loss, humiliation—curiously inert.
Whore. How many men had embraced her? How many gritty chins against her cheek? Always something to be endured. All of them punishing her for their need. Monotony had made them seem laughable, a long queue of the weak, the hopeful, the ashamed, the angered, the dangerous. How easily one grunting body replaced the next, until they became abstract things, moments of a ludicrous ceremony, spilling bowel-hot libations upon her, smearing her with their meaningless paint. One no different from the next.
They punished her for that as well.
How old had she been, when her father had sold her to the first of his friends? Eleven? Twelve? When had the punishment begun? When had he first lain with her? She could remember her mother weeping in the corner … but not much more.
And her daughter … How old had she been?
She had thought her father’s thoughts, she explained. Another mouth. Let it feed itself. The monotony had numbed her to the horror, had made degradation a laughable thing. To trade flashing silver for milky seed—the fools. Let Mimara be schooled in the foolishness of men. Clumsy, rutting animals. One need only pay with a little patience, mimic their passion, wait, and soon it would be over. In the morning, one could buy food … Food from fools, Mimara. Can’t you see child? Shush. Stop weeping. Look! Food from fools!
“That was her name?” Kellhus asked. “Mimara?”
“Yes,” Esmenet said. Why could she say that name now, when she could never utter it with Achamian? Strange, the way long sorrow could silence the pang of unspeakable things.
The first sobs surprised her. Without thinking, she leaned into Kellhus, and his arms enclosed her. She wailed and beat softly against his chest, heaved and cried. He smelled of wool and sunburned skin.
They were dead. The only ones she’d ever loved.
After her breathing settled, Kellhus pressed her back, and her hands fell slack to his lap. Over the course of several heartbeats, she felt him harden against the back of her wrist, as though a serpent flexed beneath wool. She neither breathed nor moved.
The air, as silent as a candle, roared …
She pulled her hands away.
Why? Why would she poison a night such as this?
Kellhus shook his head, softly laughed. “Intimacy begets intimacy, Esmi. So long as we remember ourselves, there’s no reason for shame. All of us are frail.”
She looked down to her palms, her wrists. Smiled.
“I remember … Thank you, Kellhus.”
He raised his hand to her cheek, then ducked from her little tent.
She rolled to her side, squeezed her hands palm to palm between her knees, and murmured curses until she fell asleep.
The message had arrived by sea, the man said. He was Galeoth, and from the look of his surcoat, a member of Saubon’s own household.
Proyas weighed the ivory scroll-case in his hand. It was small, cold to the touch, and finely worked with tiny Tusks. Clever workmanship, Proyas thought. Innumerable tiny representations, each figure defined by further figures, so that there was no blank ground to throw each into relief, only tusks and more tusks. There was a sermon, Proyas mused, even in the container of this message.
But then that was Maithanet: sermons all the way down.
The Conriyan Prince thanked and dismissed the man, then returned to his chair by his field table. It was hot and humid in his pavilion, so much so he found himself resenting the lamps for their added heat. He’d stripped down to a thin, white linen tunic and had already decided that he would sleep naked—after he investigated this letter.
With his knife he carefully broke the canister’s wax seal. He tipped it, and the small scroll slid out, fastened by yet another seal, this one bearing the Shriah’s own mark.
What could he want?
Proyas brooded for a moment on the privilege of receiving such letters from such a man. Then he snapped the wax seal, peeled open the parchment roll.
Lord Prince Nersei Proyas, May the Gods of the God shelter you, and keep you.
Your last missive …
Proyas paused, struck by a sense of guilt and mortification. Months ago, he’d written Maithanet at Achamian’s behest, asking about the death of a former student of his—Paro Inrau. At the time, he hadn’t believed he would actually send it. He’d been certain that writing the letter would make sending it impossible. What better way to at once discharge and dispose of an obligation? Dear Maithanet, a sorcerer friend of mine wants me to ask whether you killed one of his spies … It was madness. There was no way he could send such a letter …
And yet.
How could he not feel a sense of kinship to this Inrau, this other student Achamian had loved? How could he not remember everything about the blasphemous fool, the wry smile, the twinkling eyes, the lazy afternoons doing drills in the gardens? How could he not pity him, a good man, a kind man, hunting fables and wives’ tales to his everlasting damnation?
Proyas had sent the letter, thinking that at long last the matter of his Mandate tutor could be put to rest. He’d never expected a reply—not truly. But he was a Prince, an heir apparent, and Maithanet was the Shriah of the Thousand Temples. Letters between such men
somehow found their way, no matter how fierce the world between them.
Proyas continued reading, holding his breath to numb the shame. Shame at having sent such a trivial matter to the man who would cleanse the Three Seas. Shame at having written this to a man at whose feet he’d wept. And shame for feeling shame at having fulfilled an old teacher’s request.
Lord Prince Nersei Proyas,
May the Gods of the God shelter you, and keep you.
Your last missive, we are afraid, left us deeply perplexed, until we recalled that you yourself once maintained several—How should we put it?—dubious associations. We had been informed that the death of this young priest, Paro Inrau, had been a suicide. The College of Luthymae, the priests charged with the investigation of this matter, reported that this Inrau had once been a student of Mandate sorcery, and that he had recently been seen in the company of one Drusas Achamian, his old teacher. They believed that this Achamian had been sent to pressure Inrau into performing various services for his School; in short, to be a spy. They believe that, as a result, the young priest found himself in an untenable position. Tribes 4:8: “He wearies of breath, who has no place he might breathe.”
The responsibility for this young man’s unfortunate death, we fear, lies with this blasphemer, Achamian. There is nothing more to it. May the God have mercy on his soul. Canticles 6:22: “The earth weeps at words which know not the Gods’ wrath.”
But as your missive left us perplexed, we fear that this missive shall leave you equally baffled. By allying the Holy War with the Scarlet Spires, we have already asked much in the way of Compromise from pious men. But in this it has been clear, we pray, that Necessity forced our hand. Without the Scarlet Spires, the Holy War could not hope to prevail against the Cishaurim. “Answer not blasphemy with blasphemy,” our Prophet says, and this verse has been oft repeated by our enemies. But in answering the charges of the Cultic Priests, the Prophet also says: “Many are those who are cleansed by way of iniquity. For the Light must ever follow upon the dark, if it is to be Light, and the Holy must ever follow upon the wicked, if it is to be Holy.” So it is that the Holy War must follow upon the Scarlet Spires, if it is to be Holy. Scholars 1:3: “Let Sun follow Night, according to the arch of Heaven.”
Now we must ask a further Compromise of you, Lord Nersei Proyas. You must do everything in your power to assist this Mandate Schoolman. Perhaps this might not be as difficult as we fear, since this man was once your teacher in Aöknyssus. But we know the depth of your piety, and unlike the greater Compromise we have forced upon you with the Scarlet Spires, there is no Necessity that we can cite that might give comfort to a heart made restless by the company of sin. Hintarates 28:4: “I ask of you, is there any friend more difficult than the friend who sins?”
Assist Drusas Achamian, Proyas, though he is a blasphemer, for in this wickedness, the Holy shall also follow. Everything shall be made clear, in the end. And it shall be glorious. Scholars 22:36: “For the warring heart becomes weary and will turn to sweeter labours. And the peace of dawn’s rising shall accompany Men throughout the toils of the day.”
May the God and all His Aspects shelter you and keep you.
Maithanet
Proyas lowered the letter to his lap.
“Assist Drusas Achamian …”
What could the Shriah possibly mean? What could be at stake, for him to make such a request?
And what was he to do with such a request, now that it was too late?
Now that Achamian was gone.
I killed him …
And Proyas suddenly realized that he’d used his old teacher as a marker, as a measure of his own piety. What greater evidence could there be of righteousness than the willingness to sacrifice a loved one? Wasn’t this the lesson of Angeshraël on Mount Kinsureah? And what better way to sacrifice a loved one than by hating?
Or delivering him to his enemies …
He thought of the whore at Kellhus’s fire—Achamian’s lover, Esmenet … How desolate she’d seemed. How frightened. Had he authored that look?
She’s just a whore!
And Achamian was just a sorcerer. Just.
All men were not equal. Certainly the Gods favoured whom they would, but there was more. Actions determined the worth of any pulse. Life was the God’s question to men, and actions were their answers. And like all answers they were either right or wrong, blessed or cursed. Achamian had condemned himself, had damned himself by his own actions! And so had the whore … This wasn’t the judgement of Nersei Proyas, this was the judgement of the Tusk, of the Latter Prophet!
Inri Sejenus …
Then why this shame? This anguish? Why this relentless, heart-mauling doubt?
Doubt. In a sense, that had been Achamian’s single lesson. Geometry, logic, history, mathematics using Nilnameshi numbers, even philosophy! —all these things were dross, Achamian would argue, in the face of doubt. Doubt had made them, and doubt would unmake them.
Doubt, he would say, set men free … Doubt, not truth!
Beliefs were the foundation of actions. Those who believed without doubting, he would say, acted without thinking. And those who acted without thinking were enslaved.
That was what Achamian would say.
Once, after listening to his beloved older brother, Tirummas, describe his harrowing pilgrimage to the Sacred Land, Proyas had told Achamian how he wished to become a Shrial Knight.
“Why?” the portly Schoolman had exclaimed.
They’d been strolling through the gardens—Proyas could remember bounding from leaf to fallen leaf just to hear them crackle beneath his sandals. They stopped near the immense iron oak that dominated the garden’s heart.
“So I can kill heathens on the Empire’s frontier!”
Achamian tossed his hands skyward in dismay. “Foolish boy! How many faiths are there? How many competing beliefs? And you would murder another on the slender hope that yours is somehow the only one?”
“Yes! I have faith!”
“Faith,” the Schoolman repeated, as though recalling the name of a hated foe. “Ask yourself, Prosha … What if the choice isn’t between certainties, between this faith and that, but between faith and doubt? Between renouncing the mystery and embracing it?”
“But doubt is weakness!” Proyas cried. “Faith is strength! Strength!” Never, he was convinced, had he felt so holy as at that moment. The sunlight seemed to shine straight through him, to bathe his heart.
“Is it? Have you looked around you, Prosha? Pay attention, boy. Watch and tell me how many men, out of weakness, lapse into the practice of doubt. Listen to those around you, and tell me what you see …”
He did exactly as Achamian had asked. For several days, he watched and listened. He saw much hesitation, but he wasn’t so foolish as to confuse that with doubt. He heard the caste-nobles squabble and the hereditary priests complain. He eavesdropped on the soldiers and the knights. He observed embassy after embassy posture before his father, making claim after florid claim. He listened to the slaves joke as they laundered, or bicker as they ate. And in the midst of innumerable boasts, declarations, and accusations, only rarely did he hear those words Achamian had made so familiar, so commonplace … The words Proyas himself found so difficult! And even then, they belonged most to those Proyas considered wise, even-handed, compassionate, and least to those he thought stupid or malicious.
“I don’t know.”
Why were these words so difficult?
“Because men want to murder,” Achamian had explained afterward. “Because men want their gold and their glory. Because they want beliefs that answer to their fears, their hatreds, and their hungers.”
Proyas could remember the heart-pounding wonder, the exhilaration of straying …
“Akka?” He took a deep, daring breath. “Are you saying the Tusk lies?”
A look of dread. “I don’t know …”
Difficult words, so difficult they would see Achamian banished from Aöknyssus and Proy
as tutored by Charamemas, the famed Shrial scholar. And Achamian had known this would happen … Proyas could see that now.
Why? Why would Achamian, who was already damned, sacrifice so much for so few words?
He thought he was giving me something … Something important.
Drusas Achamian had loved him. What was more, he’d loved him so deeply he’d imperilled his position, his reputation—even his vocation, if what Xinemus had said was true. Achamian had given without hope of reward.
He wanted me to be free.
And Proyas had given him away, thinking only of rewards.
The thought was too much to bear.
I did it for the Holy War! For Shimeh!
And now this letter—from Maithanet.
He snatched up the parchment, scanned it once again, as though the Shriah’s manly script might offer some answer …
“Assist Drusas Achamian …”
What had happened? The Scarlet Spires he could understand, but what use could the Shriah of the Thousand Temples have with a Schoolman? And with a Mandate Schoolman, no less …
A sudden chill dropped through him. Beneath the black walls of Momemn, Achamian had once argued that the Holy War wasn’t what it seemed … Was this letter proof of that fact?
Something had frightened, or at least concerned, Maithanet. But what?
Had he heard rumours of Prince Kellhus? For weeks now, Proyas had meant to write the Shriah regarding the Prince of Atrithau, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to put ink to parchment. Something compelled him to wait, but whether it was hope or fear he couldn’t determine. Kellhus simply struck him as one of those mysteries that could only be resolved through patience. And besides, what would he say? That the Holy War for the Latter Prophet was witnessing the birth of a Latter Latter Prophet?
As much as he was loath to admit it, Conphas was right: the notion was simply too absurd!
No. If the Holy Shriah harboured reservations concerning Prince Kellhus, Proyas was fairly confident he would’ve simply asked. As it was, there wasn’t so much as a hint, let alone mention, of the Prince of Atrithau in the letter. Chances were Maithanet had no inkling of Kellhus’s existence, let alone his growing stature.