The Warrior Prophet (15 page)

Read The Warrior Prophet Online

Authors: R. Scott Bakker

“Because I had to know,” she replied, looking down at her hands.
“Know what? What makes my hands shake? What makes my eyes dart in terror?”
Her shoulders hitched in the gloom; Achamian realized she was sobbing.
“You pretended I wasn’t there,” she whispered.
“I what?”
“That last night at Momemn … I came to you. I watched your camp, your friends, only hidden because I was too afraid that I would … that I would … But you weren’t there, Akka! So I waited and waited. Then I saw … I saw
you
… I wept with joy, Akka! Wept! I stood there, right before you, weeping! I held out my arms, and you … and you …” The anguished light in her eyes dulled, flickered out. She finished in a different voice—far colder.
“You pretended I wasn’t there.”
What was she talking about? Achamian pressed palms to his forehead, wrestled with the urge to lash out—to punish. She stood close enough to touch—after all this time!—and yet she receded … He needed to understand.
“Esmi?” he said slowly, trying to collect his wine-addled wits. “What are you—”
“What was it, Akka?” she asked, rigid and cool. “Was I too polluted, too defiled? Too much a filthy whore?”
“No, Esmi, I—”
“Too bruised a
peach?
”
“
Esmenet,
listen to—”
She laughed bitterly. “So you’re going to take me to your tent, you say? Add me to the bushel—”
He seized her by the shoulders, crying, “
You
speak of bushels to me?
You?
”
But he immediately repented, seeing his own savagery reflected in her terrified expression. She had even flinched, as though expecting a blow. He noticed, as though for the first time, the bruising about her left eye.
Who did this? Not me. Not me …
“Look at us,” he said, releasing her and carefully drawing back his hands. Both beaten. Both outcasts.
“Look at us,” she mumbled, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“I can explain, Esmi … Everything.”
She nodded, rubbed her shoulders where he’d grabbed her. Female voices chimed in unison outside—they had started singing like the other harlots, promising soft thighs for hard silver. Firelight glittered through the open flaps, like gold through dark waters.
“That night you’re talking about … Sweet Sejenus, Esmi, if I didn’t see you, it wasn’t because I was
ashamed
of you! How could I be? How could anyone—let alone a
sorcerer!
—be ashamed of a woman such as you?”
She bit her lip, smiled through more tears. “Then why?”
Achamian rolled to his side and laid next to her, his eyes searching the dark canvas above.
“Because I
found them,
Esmi—that very night … I found the Consult.”
 
“I remember nothing after that,” he concluded. “I know I walked through the night, all the way from the Imperial Precincts to Xinemus’s camp, but I remember none of it …”
The words had splashed from him, an inarticulate rush, painting the horrific events that transpired that night beneath the Andiamine Heights. The unprecedented summons. The meeting with Ikurei Xerius III. The interrogation of Skeaös, his Prime Counsel. The face-that-was-not-a-face, unclenching like a woman’s long-fingered fist. The dreadful conspiracy of skin. He told her about everything except Kellhus …
Esmenet had curled into his arms to listen. Now she perched her chin on his chest.
“Did the Emperor believe you?”
“No … I imagine he thinks the Cishaurim were responsible. Men prefer new loves and
old
enemies.”
“And Atyersus? What of the Mandate?”
“Excited and dismayed in equal measure, or so I imagine …” He licked his lips. “I’m not sure. I haven’t contacted them since first reporting to Nautzera. They probably think I’m dead by now … Murdered because of what I know.”
“Then they haven’t contacted you …”
“That’s not the way it works, remember?”
“Yes, yes …” she replied, rolling her eyes and smirking. “How does it go? With the Cants of Calling, you need to know both the here, the individual, and the there, the location, to initiate contact. Since you march, they have no idea where you are …”
“Exactly,” he said, bracing himself for the inevitable question to follow.
Her eyes probed his, compassionate yet guarded.
“So then why haven’t
you
contacted them?”
Achamian shuddered. He ran shaking fingers through her hair. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he murmured. “So glad you’re safe …”
“Akka, what is it? You’re frightening me …”
He closed his eyes, breathed deep. “I met someone. Someone whose coming was foretold two thousand years ago …” He opened his eyes, and she was still there. “An Anasûrimbor.”
“But that means …” Esmenet frowned, stared into his chest. “You cried out that name in your sleep once, woke me …” She looked up, peered into his face. “I remember asking you what it meant, ‘Anasûrimbor,’ and you said … you said …”
“I don’t remember.”
“You said that it named the last ruling dynasty of ancient Kûniüri, and …” Her expression slackened in horror. “This isn’t funny, Akka. You’re really scaring me!”
She feared, Achamian realized, because she believed … He gasped, blinked hot tears. Tears of joy.
She really believes … All along she’s believed!
“No, Akka!” Esmenet cried, clutching his chest. “This can’t be happening!”
How could life be so perverse? That a Mandate Schoolman could celebrate the world’s end.
 
With Esmenet pressed naked against him, he explained why he thought Kellhus, without any doubt, had to be the Harbinger. She listened without comment, watched him with a fearful expectancy.
“Don’t you see?” he said, as much to the surrounding darkness as to her. “If I tell Nautzera and the others, they
will
take him … No matter whose protection he enjoys.”
“Will they kill him?”
Achamian blinked away disturbing images of past interrogations. “They’ll break him, murder who he is …”
“Even still,” she said. “Akka, you must surrender him.” There was no hesitation, no pause, only cold eyes and remorseless judgement. For women, it seemed, the scales of threat and love brooked no counterweights.
“But this is a
life,
Esmi.”
“Exactly,” she replied. “
A
life … What difference does it make, the life of one man? So many die, Akka.”
The hard logic of a hard world.
“It depends on the man, doesn’t it?”
This gave her pause. “I suppose it does,” she said. “So what kind of man is he? What kind of man is worth risking Apocalypse?”
Despite her sarcasm, he could tell she feared his answer. Certainty despised complications, and she needed to be certain.
She thinks she saves me,
he realized.
She needs me to be wrong for my sake
…
“He’s …” Achamian swallowed. “He’s unlike any other man.”
“How so?” A prostitute’s scepticism.
“It’s difficult to explain.” He hesitated, pondering his time with Kellhus. So many insights. So many instants of awe. “You know how it feels when you stand on someone else’s ground—on their property?”
“I suppose … Like a trespasser or a guest.”
“Somehow that’s the way he makes you feel. Like a guest.”
An expression of distaste. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
“Then it’s not how it sounds.” Achamian breathed deeply, groped for the proper words. “There’s many … many
grounds
between men. Some are mutual, and some are not. When you and I speak of the Consult, for instance, you stand upon my ground, just as I stand upon your ground when you discuss your … your life. But with Kellhus, it makes no difference what you discuss or where you stand; somehow the ground beneath your feet
belongs to him
. I’m always his guest—always! Even when I teach him, Esmi!”
“You teach him? You’ve taken him as your student?”
Achamian frowned. She made it sound like a betrayal.
“Just the exoterics,” he said with a shrug, “the world. Not the esoterics. He’s not one of the Few …” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Thank the God.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because of his intellect, Esmi! You’ve no idea! I’ve never met such a subtle soul, neither in life
nor in book
… Not even Ajencis, Esmi!
Ajencis!
If Kellhus possessed the ability to work sorcery, he’d be … he’d be …” Achamian caught his breath.
“What?”
“Another Seswatha … More than Seswatha …”
“Then I like him even less. He sounds
dangerous,
Akka. Let Nautzera and the others know. If they seize him, so be it. At least you can wash your hands of this madness!”
Fresh tears welled in his eyes. “But …”
“Akka,” she pressed, “this burden isn’t yours to bear!”
“But it is!”
Esmenet pushed herself from his chest, propping herself with an arm to lean over him. Her hair draped over her left shoulder, an impenetrable black in the candlelight. She seemed watchful, hesitant.
“Is it? I think you say this because of Inrau …”
Cold clasped his heart. Inrau. Sweet boy. Son.
“And why not?” he cried with sudden ferocity. “They killed him!”
“But they sent
you!
They sent you to Sumna to turn Inrau, and that’s what you did, even though you knew exactly what would happen … You told me this before you even contacted him!”
“So what are you saying? That
I killed Inrau?
”
“I’m saying that’s what
you
think. You think you killed him.”
Oh, Achamian,
her tone said,
please
…
“And what if I do? Does that mean I should relent a second time? Let those fools in Atyersus doom another man that I—”
“No, Achamian. It means you’re not doing this—any of this!—to save this-this Anasûrimbor Kellhus. You’re doing it to punish yourself.”
He stared, dumbstruck. Was that what she thought?
“You say this,” Achamian breathed, “because you know me so well …” He reached out, traced the pale edge of her breast with a finger. “And Kellhus so little.”
“No man is that remarkable … I’m a whore, remember?”
“We’ll see,” he said, tugging her down. They kissed, long and deep.
“We,”
she repeated, laughing as though both hurt and astounded. “It really is ‘we’ now, isn’t it?”
With a shy, even scared, smile, she helped him pull free his weathered robes.
“When I can’t find you,” he said, “or even when you turn away, I feel … I feel
hollow,
as though my heart’s a thing of smoke … Isn’t that ‘we’?”

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