The Warrior Prophet (19 page)

Read The Warrior Prophet Online

Authors: R. Scott Bakker

 
So many variables.
After stationing pickets and dispersing his men about the edges of the grove, Saubon, along with his groom and the Shrial Knight, joined their fire in the ruined chapel’s heart. Following the custom of the southern courts, the Galeoth Prince avoided all talk of his purpose, scrupulously awaiting what practitioners of jnan called the
memponti,
the “fortuitous turn” that would of its own accord lead to weightier matters. Saubon, Kellhus knew, thought the ways of his own people rude. With every breath he waged war with who he was.
But it was the Shrial Knight, Sarcellus, who commanded Kellhus’s attention—and not just because of his missing face. Achamian had smoothed the shock from his expression, yet an apprehensive fury animated his eyes each time he looked at the Knight of the Tusk. Achamian not only recognized Sarcellus, Kellhus realized, he hated him. The Dûnyain monk could fairly
hear
movements of Achamian’s soul: the seething resentment for some past slight, the wincing memories of being struck, the remorse …
In Sumna,
Kellhus realized, recalling to the last detail Achamian’s every reference to his previous mission.
Something happened between him and Sarcellus in Sumna. Something involving Inrau
…
Despite his hatred, the sorcerer obviously had no inkling that Sarcellus was another Skeaös … Another Consult skin-spy.
And neither did Esmenet, though her reaction far eclipsed Achamian’s. Shame. The fear of discovery. The treacherous hope …
She thinks he’s come to take her … Take her from Achamian
.
She’d been the thing’s lover.
But these mysteries paled before the greater question: What was it doing here? Not just in the Holy War, but
here,
this night, riding at Saubon’s side …
“How did you find us?” Achamian was asking.
Saubon ran fingers through his close-cropped hair.
“My friend, Sarcellus, here. He has an uncanny ability to track …” He turned to the Knight-Commander. “How did you say you learned?”
“As a youth,” Sarcellus lied, “on my father’s western estates”—he pursed his lusty lips, as though restraining a smile—“tracking Scylvendi …”
“Tracking
Scylvendi,
” Saubon repeated, as though to say,
Only in the Nansurium
… “I was ready to turn back at dusk, but he insisted you were near.” Saubon opened his hands and shrugged.
Silence.
Esmenet sat rigid, covering her tattooed hand the way others might avoid smiling to conceal bad teeth. Achamian glanced at Kellhus, expecting him to brush away the awkwardness. Serwë, sensing the undercurrent of anxiety, clutched his thigh. The faceless beast stared into its bowl of wine.
Ordinarily, Kellhus would’ve said something. But for the moment he could provide little more than rote responses. His eyes watched, but they didn’t focus. His expression merely mirrored those surrounding him. Self had vanished into
place,
a place of opening, where permutation after permutation was hunted to its merciless conclusion. Consequence and effect. Events like concentric ripples unfolding across the black waters of the future … Each word, each look, a stone.
There was great peril here. The principles of this encounter had to be grasped. Only the Logos could illuminate the path … Only the Logos.
“I followed your smell,” Sarcellus was saying. He stared directly at Achamian, his eyes glittering with something incomprehensible. Humour?
The joke, Kellhus decided, was that this was no joke: the thing had tracked them like a dog. He needed to be exceedingly wary of these creatures. As of yet, he had no idea of their capabilities.
Do you know of these things, Father?
Everything had transformed since he’d taken Drusas Achamian as his teacher. The ground of this world, he now knew, had concealed many, many secrets from his brethren. The Logos remained true, but its ways were far more devious, and far more spectacular, than the Dûnyain had ever conceived. And the Absolute … the End of Ends was more distant than they’d ever imagined. So many obstacles. So many forks in the path …
Despite his initial scepticism, Kellhus had come to believe much of what Achamian had claimed over the course of their discussions. He believed the stories of the First Apocalypse. He believed the faceless thing before him was an artifact of the Consult. But the Celmomian Prophecy? The coming of a Second Apocalypse? Such things were absurd. By definition, the future couldn’t anticipate the present. What came after could-n’t come before …
Could it?
There was so much that must await his father … So many questions.
His ignorance had already culminated in near disaster. The mere exchange of glances in the Emperor’s Privy Garden had triggered several small catastrophes, including the events beneath the Andiamine Heights, which had convinced Achamian that Kellhus was in fact the Harbinger. If the man decided to tell his School that an Anasûrimbor had returned …
There was great peril here.
Drusas Achamian had to remain ignorant—that much was certain. If he knew that Kellhus could
see
the very skin-spies that so terrified him, he wouldn’t hesitate to contact his masters in Atyersus. So much depended on him remaining estranged from his School—isolated.
Which meant Kellhus must confront these things on his own.
“My groom,” Saubon was saying to the Shrial Knight, “swears nothing short of sorcery led you to this place … Kussalt fancies himself quite the tracker.”
Did the Consult somehow
know
he’d revealed Skeaös in the Emperor’s court? The Emperor had seen him studying his Prime Counsel, and more importantly, he’d remembered. Several times now, Kellhus had seen Imperial spies watching from a discreet distance, following. It was possible the Consult knew how Skeaös had been uncovered, perhaps even probable.
If they did know, then this Sarcellus could very well be a probe. They would need to discover whether Skeaös’s unmasking had been an accident of the Emperor’s paranoia, or whether this stranger from Atrithau had somehow
seen through his face
. They would watch him, ask discreet questions, and when this provided no answers, they would make contact … Wouldn’t they?
But there was also Achamian to consider. Doubtless the Consult would keep close watch on Mandate Schoolmen, the only individuals who believed they still existed. Sarcellus and Achamian had made contact before, both directly, as evident from the sorcerer’s reaction, and indirectly via Esmenet, who obviously had been seduced at some point in the past. They were using her for some reason … Perhaps they were testing
her,
sounding her capacity for deceit and treachery. She’d told Achamian nothing of Sarcellus; that much was apparent.
The study is so deep, Father.
A thousand possibilities, galloping across the trackless steppe of what was to come. A hundred scenarios flashing through his soul, some branching and branching, terminally deflected from his objectives, others flaring out in disaster …
Direct confrontation. Accusations levelled before the Great Names. Acclaim for revealing the horror within. Mandate involvement. Open war with the Consult … Unworkable. The Mandate couldn’t be involved until they could be dominated. War against the Consult couldn’t be risked. Not yet.
Indirect confrontation. Forays into the night. Throats cut. Attempted reprisals. A hidden war gradually revealed … Also unworkable. If Sarcellus and the others were murdered, the Consult would know someone could see them. When they learned the details of Skeaös’s discovery, if they hadn’t already, they would realize it was Kellhus, and indirect confrontation would become open war.
Inaction. Watchful enemies. Appraisal. Sterile probes. Second guessing. Responses delayed by the need to know. Worry in the shadow of growing power … Workable. Even if they learned the details surrounding Skeaös’s discovery, the Consult would only have
suspicions
. If what Achamian claimed was true, they weren’t so crude as to blot out potential threats without first
understanding
them. Confrontation was inevitable. The outcome depended only on how much time he had to prepare …
He was one of the Conditioned, Dûnyain. Circumstances would yield. The mission must—
“Kellhus,”
Serwë was saying. “The Prince has asked you a question.”
Kellhus blinked, smiled as though at his own foolishness. Without exception, everyone about the fire stared at him, some concerned, some puzzled.
“I’m-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I …” He glanced nervously from watcher to watcher, exhaled, as though reconciling himself to his principles, no matter how embarrassing. “Sometimes I … I
see
things …”
Silence.
“Me too,” Sarcellus said scathingly. “Though usually when my eyes are open.”
Had he closed his eyes? He had no recollection of it. If so, it would be a troubling lapse. Not since—
“Idiot,”
Saubon snapped, turning to the Shrial Knight. “Fool! We sit about the man’s fire and you
insult
him?”
“The Knight-Commander has caused no offence,” Kellhus said. “You forget, Prince, that he’s as much priest as warrior, and we’ve asked him to share a fire with a sorcerer … It’s like asking a midwife to break bread with a leper, isn’t it?” A moment of nervous laughter, over-loud and over-brief. “No doubt,” Kellhus added, “he’s simply out of temper.”
“No doubt,” Sarcellus repeated. A mocking smile, bottomless, like all his expressions.
What does it want?
“Which begs the question,” Kellhus continued, effortlessly grasping the “fortuitous turn” that had so far eluded Prince Saubon. “What brings a Shrial Knight to a sorcerer’s fire?”
“I was sent by Gotian,” Sarcellus said, “my Grandmaster …” He glanced at Saubon, who watched stonefaced. “The Shrial Knights have sworn to be among the first who set foot upon heathen ground, and Prince Saubon proposes—”
But Saubon interrupted, blurting, “I would speak to you of this alone, Prince Kellhus.”
 
What would you have me do, Father?
So many possibilities. Incalculable possibilities.
Kellhus followed Saubon through the dark lanes of the ironwood grove. They paused at the edge of the cliff and looked out over the moonlit reaches of the Inûnara Highlands. Clear of the hissing leaves, the wind buffeted them. The long fall below was littered with fallen trees. Dead roots reached skyward. Some of the fallen still brandished great sockets of earth, like dusty fists raised against the survivors.
“You
do
see things, don’t you?” Saubon finally said. “I mean, you
dreamed
of this Holy War from Atrithau.”
Kellhus enclosed him in the circle of his senses. Heart rate. Blush reflex. The orbital muscles ringing his eyes …
He fears me
.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because Proyas is a stubborn fool. Because those first to plate are those first to feast!”
The Prince of Galeoth was both daring and impatient. Though he appreciated subtlety, he preferred bold strokes in the end.
“You wish to march immediately,” Kellhus said.
Saubon grimaced in the dark. “I would be in Gedea now,” he snapped, “if it weren’t for you!”
He spoke of the recent Council, where Kellhus’s reinterpretation of Ruöm’s destruction had amputated his arguments. But his resentment, Kellhus could see, was hollow. Though ruthless and mercenary, Coithus Saubon was not petty.
“Then why come to me now?”
“Because what you said … about the God burning our ships … It had the ring of truth.”
He was a watcher of men, Kellhus realized, someone who continually measured. His whole life he’d thought himself a shrewd judge of character, prided himself on his honesty, his ability to punish flattery and reward criticism. But with Kellhus … He had no yardstick, no carpenter’s string.
He’s told himself I’m a seer of some kind. But he fears I’m more
…
“And that’s what you seek? The truth?”

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