A far different Holy War climbed the ways into the Enathpanean countryside. The newcomers, decked in the traditional tabards and surcoats of their homelands, provided the most stark measure of this transformation. Word of the Holy War's straits in Caraskand had inspired several thousand Inrithi to dare winter seas and make for Joktha. They began arriving at the gates shortly after the breaking of the siege, posturing, boasting, just as those watching upon the walls had once postured and boasted beneath the gates of Momemn and Asgilioch. They fell silent, however, upon entering the city, appalled by the battered faces and perpetual stares that greeted them. The ancient customs were observed-hands were shaken, countrymen embraced-but it was all a pretence.

The original Men of the Tusk-the survivors-were now sons of a different nation. They had spilled whatever blood they once shared with these men. The old loyalties and traditions had become tales of a faraway country, like Zeum, a place too distant to be confirmed. The hooks of the old ways, the old concerns, had been set in fat that no longer existed. Everything they had known had been tested and found wanting. Their vanity, their envy, their hubris, all the careless bigotries of their prior lives, had been murdered with their fellows. Their hopes had been burned to ashes. Their scruples had been boiled to bone and tendon-or so it seemed.

Out of calamity they had salvaged only the barest necessities; all else had been jettisoned. Their spare manner, their guarded speech, their disinterested contempt for excess, all spoke to a dangerous thrift. And nowhere was this more evident than in their eyes: they stared with the blank wariness of men who never slept-not peering, not watching, but observing, observing, and with a directness that transcended "bold" or "rude." and with a directness that transcended "bold" or "rude."

They stared as though nothing stared back, as though all were objects.

Among the newcomers, even the costumed caste-n.o.bles seemed unable or unwilling to match their gaze. Many tried to maintain appearances-the wry glances, the nods of acknowledgment-but their looks always returned to their boots or sandals. To stand in the sight of such men, they somehow understood, was to be measured, measured, not by something as flawed and as arbitrary as a man, but by the length and breadth of what they had suffered. not by something as flawed and as arbitrary as a man, but by the length and breadth of what they had suffered.

Their very look had become judgement, so much had they witnessed.

Thoroughly unnerved by their so-called brothers, only a few hundred newcomers dared question the Holy War's other profound transformation: the Warrior-Prophet. Those of power and influence, such as Dogora Teor, the Tydonni Earl of Sumagalt, were eased into the Tribe of Truth by the Warrior-Prophet himself. Others found themselves befriended by Judges from their various homelands, who spirited them to sermons and Whelmings. Those who continued dissenting were separated from their fellows and a.s.signed to companies of faithful. And the worst agitators, it was said, were brought before the Consort, never to be seen again.

The Inrithi found Enathpaneah abandoned by the enemy. Gothyelk, who marched along the coastline with his Tydonni, encountered the burned ruins of nearly a hundred villas. Though most of the native Enathi, a people of ancient Shigeki stock, remained shut in their villages, not one of their Kianene lords could be found. No heathen patrols loitered in the distances. No dwelling of scale survived intact. When Athjeari and his Gaenri came to the ends of Enathpaneah, the old forts that guarded the tracks into Xerash were still smoking, but the enemy was nowhere to be seen.

The heathen's back had been broken-just as the Warrior-Prophet had said. Save a triumphal march, it seemed nothing stood between them and Holy Shimeh.

The first elements of the Holy War descended into Xerash and camped across the Plains of Heshor, where they held a great celebration. Xerash figured large in the narratives of The Tractate The Tractate-so much so that many argued they had already entered the Sacred Lands. Men gathered to listen to readings from the Book of Traders, the account of the Latter Prophet's years of exile among the depraved Xerashi. It seemed a thing of awe to at last stand so close to those places named.

But names change over the centuries, and many spent long hours debating points of scripture and geography. Was not the town of Bengut actually the city of Abet-goka, where Amoti merchants concealed the Latter Prophet from the wrath of the Xerashi King? Were not the ma.s.sive ruins reported near Pidast the remains of the great fortress of Ebaliol, where Inri Sejenus was imprisoned for prophesying the "thousand temples"? Throughout the following days, impromptu pilgrimages set out from the main columns to visit various sites. And even though the pilgrims were invariably disappointed by the stubborn silence of the ruins they found, the eyes of most would burn with fervour when they returned. For they walked the ways of Xerash.

At Ebaliol, the Warrior-Prophet climbed the broken foundations and addressed thousands. "I stand," he cried, "where my brother stood!"

Twenty-two men died in the delirious crush. It would prove an omen of what was to follow.

For millennia the so-called Middle-Lands had been coveted by the Kings of Shigek to the north and the Kings of Old Nilnamesh to the south. After inflicting a crushing defeat on the Shigeki, Anzumarapata II, the Nilnameshi King of Invishi, settled the Plains of Heshor with untold thousands of his people, hoping to secure his empire through forced resettlement. These dark-skinned people brought with them their indolent G.o.ds and their promiscuous customs. They raised Gerotha, the greatest city of Xerash, in the heart of the plains, and bent their backs to the fields as they had done in humid Nilnamesh.

By the Latter Prophet's time, Xerash was an old and powerful kingdom, demanding and receiving tribute from both Amoteu and Enathpaneah. The Amoti in particular thought the Xerashi an obscene race, a blight upon the land. For the authors of The Tractate, The Tractate, it was a land of innumerable brothels, fratricidal kings, and rampant h.o.m.os.e.xuality. And though the blood and custom of the Nilnameshi had been thinned into extinction long ago, for the Men of the Tusk "xeratic" still meant "sodomite," and they punished the Fanim of Xerash for the trespa.s.ses of others long dead. The Xerash that the Inrithi wandered through was a place of old and labyrinthine evils. And her people found themselves called to account not once, but twice. it was a land of innumerable brothels, fratricidal kings, and rampant h.o.m.os.e.xuality. And though the blood and custom of the Nilnameshi had been thinned into extinction long ago, for the Men of the Tusk "xeratic" still meant "sodomite," and they punished the Fanim of Xerash for the trespa.s.ses of others long dead. The Xerash that the Inrithi wandered through was a place of old and labyrinthine evils. And her people found themselves called to account not once, but twice.

Reports of ma.s.sacre became common. There was the great fortress of Kijenicho along the coast, where Earl Iyengar had his Nangaels throw the garrison from the walls onto the breakers below. And the walled town of Naith high in the Betmulla foothills, which Earl Ganbrota and his Ingraulish burned to the ground. There were the refugees along the Herotic Way-the very road to Shimeh!-who were ridden down for sport by Lord Soter and his Kishyati Knights.

The Warrior-Prophet reacted quickly, dispatching edicts forbidding all acts of murder and rapine, and censuring those responsible for the most wanton atrocities. He even sent Gotian to have Lord Uranyanka, the Ainoni Palatine of Moserothu, flogged. Apparently the man had ordered his archers to ma.s.sacre an enclave of lepers near the town of Sabotha.

But it was too late. Athjeari soon returned, bearing word that Gerotha had scorched her fields and plantations. The Kianene had fled, but all Xerash was closed against them.

Despite the dread implications, despite all the astonishing differences, the journey to Xerash reminded Achamian of nothing so much as his days as Proyas's tutor in Aoknyssus. Or so he told himself at first.

On one occasion, after Esmenet's palfrey was lamed while descending a precarious switchback trail in the Enathpanean hills, Achamian watched as some dozen knights offered to give give her their chargers-something tantamount to giving her their honour, since their mounts were their means of waging war. Achamian had witnessed much the same while accompanying Proyas and his mother to her dowager estates in Anplei. On another occasion, they encountered a party of Tydonni footmen-some of Lord Iyengar's Nangaels, it turned out-bearing a fresh boar hoisted above them on the points of some seven or eight spears, an ancient rite of va.s.salage that Achamian had once witnessed in the court of Proyas's father, Eukernas II. her their chargers-something tantamount to giving her their honour, since their mounts were their means of waging war. Achamian had witnessed much the same while accompanying Proyas and his mother to her dowager estates in Anplei. On another occasion, they encountered a party of Tydonni footmen-some of Lord Iyengar's Nangaels, it turned out-bearing a fresh boar hoisted above them on the points of some seven or eight spears, an ancient rite of va.s.salage that Achamian had once witnessed in the court of Proyas's father, Eukernas II.

But there was something more general, a myriad of smaller recognitions, that seemed to remind him of those more youthful days-despite the daily battery of riding so near Esmenet. For one, others in the Sacral Retinue treated him with deference and respect, their manner so grave it sometimes verged on the comic. He was, after all, the teacher teacher of the Warrior-Prophet-an occupation that had quickly morphed into the preposterous honorific-Holy Tutor. For another, he no longer of the Warrior-Prophet-an occupation that had quickly morphed into the preposterous honorific-Holy Tutor. For another, he no longer walked walked. Even more than slaves, horses were the yardstick of n.o.bility, and Achamian, lowly Drusas Achamian, now found himself with his own: a sleek black-allegedly from Kascamandri's own stock-whom he called Noon in memory of poor old Daybreak.

In fact, he found himself awash in small riches: Damask tunics, muslin gowns, felt robes-a wardrobe that included access to a pool of body-slaves for his frequent ceremonial fittings. A silvered corselet, rest.i.tched with leather pleats to accommodate his girth. An ivory jewel box containing rings and earrings that he felt too foolish to wear, as well as two black-pearl broaches that he secretly gave away. Ambergis from Zeum. Myrrh from the Great Salt. Even a genuine bed-a bed on the trail!-for those few hours of sleep he could steal.

Achamian had disdained such comforts during his tenure at the Conriyan court. After all, he was a Gnostic Schoolman, not some "anagogic wh.o.r.e." But now, after the innumerable deprivations he'd endured ... The life of a spy was hard. To finally have have things, even things he couldn't bring himself to enjoy, eased his heart for some reason, as though they were balm for unseen wounds. Sometimes, when he ran his hands over soft fabric or yet again searched through the rings for one he might wear, a clutching sadness would come upon him, and he would remember how his father had cursed those who carved toys for their sons. things, even things he couldn't bring himself to enjoy, eased his heart for some reason, as though they were balm for unseen wounds. Sometimes, when he ran his hands over soft fabric or yet again searched through the rings for one he might wear, a clutching sadness would come upon him, and he would remember how his father had cursed those who carved toys for their sons.

And there were the politics, of course, though they were largely confined to the jnanic posturing of the caste-n.o.bles who continually drifted in and out of the Sacral Retinue. All manoeuvring, no matter what its stripe, would instantly collapse into uniform servility whenever Kellhus appeared, and just as quickly leap back into effect when he departed. Occasionally, when something particularly sour seemed to be brewing, Kellhus would call the princ.i.p.als to account, and everyone would watch with rigid wonder as he explained things-people-he could not possibly know. It was as though the writ of their hearts had been inked across their faces.

This no doubt explained the near-total absence of politicking among those who formed the core of the Sacral Retinue: the Nascenti, with their Zaudunyani functionaries, and the Liaisons, the caste-n.o.ble representatives of the different Great Names. In Aoknyssus, the closer one came to Proyas's father, the quicker the knives had flashed-as one might expect. Politics, after all, was the pursuit of advantage within communities of men. One need not be Ajencis to see this. The more powerful the community, the greater the advantage; the greater the advantage, the more vicious the pursuit. It was axiomatic, something Achamian had witnessed time and again in courts across the Three Seas. And yet it in no way applied to the Sacral Retinue. All knives were sheathed in the Warrior-Prophet's hallowed presence.

Among the Nascenti, Achamian found a camaraderie and a candour unlike anything he'd known before. Despite the inevitable lapses, they largely approached one another as men should: with humour, openness, understanding. For Achamian, the fact that they were as much warriors warriors as apostles or apparati made it all the more remarkable ... and troubling. as apostles or apparati made it all the more remarkable ... and troubling.

Usually, as they rode in clots or files, they would joke and argue-or make wagers, endless wagers. Sometimes, they simply sang the gorgeous hymns Kellhus had taught them, their eyes bright, devoid of oily thought or inclination, their voices clear and booming. And Achamian, though embarra.s.sed at first, soon found himself joining them, wonderstruck by the words, the phrasing, and suffused with a joy that would seem impossible afterward-too simple, too profound. Then he would glimpse Esmenet rocking in her saddle amid her servants, or he would see another corpse mute in the surrounding gra.s.ses, and he would recall the purpose of their journey.

They rode to war-to kill. To conquer Holy Shimeh.

In these moments, the differences between his present circ.u.mstance and his time as Proyas's tutor would loom stark before him, and the fleecy sense of reminiscence that seemed to permeate everything would grow hard with cold and dread. What was it he remembered?

Several days into the march, as the Holy War wound through one of the endless ravines that scored the Enathpanean countryside, a group of long-haired tribesmen-Surdu, Achamian would later learn-were brought to Kellhus under the sign of the Tusk. For centuries, they said, they had preserved their Inrithi heritage, and now they wished to pay obeisance to those who had come to deliver them. They would be the eyes of the Holy War, if they could, showing the Men of the Tusk secret ways through the low ranges of the Betmulla. Achamian missed most of what followed for the crowds, but he was able to see the Surdu chieftain curl over his knees on the earth while offering up an iron sword that had been bent into a V V.

Inexplicably, Kellhus ordered the tribesmen seized. They were subsequently tortured, whereupon it was discovered that Kascamandri's son, Fanayal, had sent them. Apparently, he had seized his father's t.i.tle, and was even now a.s.sembling what dregs he could at Shimeh. The Surdu were indeed Inrithi, but Fanayal had abducted their wives and children to compel them to lead the Holy War astray. The new Padirajah, it seemed, was desperate for time.

Kellhus had them flayed alive-publicly.

The image of the chieftain kneeling with the bent sword nagged Achamian for the remainder of the day. Once again he was certain he'd witnessed something remarkably similar-but not in Conriya. It couldn't be ... The sword he remembered had been bronze bronze.

Then in a rush he understood. What he thought he recalled, what had suffused fairly everything with a ghostly air of familiarity, had nothing to do with his years as Proyas's tutor in the Conriyan court. In fact, it had nothing to do with him him at all. It was ancient at all. It was ancient Kuniuri Kuniuri he remembered. The time Seswatha spent campaigning with that other Anasurimbor ... High King Celmomas. he remembered. The time Seswatha spent campaigning with that other Anasurimbor ... High King Celmomas.

It always jarred Achamian, realizing that so much of what he was he in fact wasn't. Now he found himself terrified by the contrary realization: that more and more he was becoming becoming what he wasn't-what he must never be. That he was becoming Seswatha. what he wasn't-what he must never be. That he was becoming Seswatha.

For so long the sheer scale of the Dreams had offered him an immunity of sorts. The things he dreamed simply didn't happen-at least not to the likes of him. With the Holy War, his life had taken a turn to the legendary, and the distance between his world and Seswatha's closed, at least in terms of what he witnessed. But even then, what he lived lived remained ba.n.a.l and impoverished. "Seswatha never shat," the old Mandate joke went. The dimensions of what Achamian lived could always fall into the dimensions of what he dreamed like a stone into a potter's urn. remained ba.n.a.l and impoverished. "Seswatha never shat," the old Mandate joke went. The dimensions of what Achamian lived could always fall into the dimensions of what he dreamed like a stone into a potter's urn.

But now, riding as Holy Tutor at the Warrior-Prophet's left hand?

In a way, he was as much as Seswatha, if not more. In a way, he no longer shat either he no longer shat either. And knowing this was enough to make him s.h.i.t.

Strangely enough, the Dreams themselves had become more bearable. Tywanrae and Dagliash continued to predominate, though as always he couldn't fathom why they should follow this or any other rhythm of events. They were like swallows, swooping and circling in aimless patterns, sketching something almost, yet never quite, a language.

He still woke mouthing cries, but their force had been blunted somehow. At first he attributed this to Esmenet, thinking each man had a certain allotment of torment, and that like wine in the bottom of a bowl, it could be tipped this way and that, but never increased. The problem was that painful days had never made for restful nights in the past. So he decided it had to be Kellhus, and as with all realizations involving the Warrior-Prophet, it seemed painfully obvious after the fact. Through Kellhus, the scale of the present not only matched the scale of his Dreams, it counterbalanced them with hope.

Hope ... Such a strange word.

Did the Consult know what they had created? How far could Golgotterath see?

Augury, Memgowa had written, said more about men's fear than about their future. But how could Achamian resist? He slept with the First Apocalypse-she was an old and taxing lover. How could he not daydream about the Second, about the terrible power slumbering in Anasurimbor Kellhus, and the overthrow of his School's ancient Enemy? There would be glory this time. Victory would not come at the cost of all that mattered.

Min-Uroikas broken. Shauriatis, Mekeritrig, Aurang and Aurax-all of them destroyed! The No-G.o.d unresurrected. The Consult a memory stamped into the muck.

Despite their opiate glamour, there was something terrifying about these thoughts. The G.o.ds were perverse. Natter as they might, the priests knew nothing of their malicious whims. Perhaps they would would see the world burn just to punish the hubris of one man. Nothing, Achamian had long ago decided, was quite so dangerous as boredom in the absence of scruples. see the world burn just to punish the hubris of one man. Nothing, Achamian had long ago decided, was quite so dangerous as boredom in the absence of scruples.

And Kellhus, with his cryptic responses, only aggravated these apprehensions. Whenever Achamian asked him why he continued to march on Shimeh when the Fanim were no more than a distraction, he always said, "If I'm to succeed my brother, I must reclaim his house."

"But the war isn't here!" Achamian once exclaimed in exasperation.

Kellhus merely smiled-for it had become a kind of game at this point-and said, "But it must be, since the war is everywhere."

Never had mystery seemed so taxing.

"Tell me," Kellhus said one night following their Gnostic lessons, "why is it the future that plagues you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your questions always turn on what will will happen, and very rarely on what I have already wrought." happen, and very rarely on what I have already wrought."

Achamian shrugged, too weary to care much for anything beyond sleep. "Because I dream the future every night, I suppose ... That, and I have the ear of a living prophet."

Kellhus laughed. "So it's like hash and peaches," he said, repeating the off-colour Nansur expression for irresistible combinations. "Even still, out of all the men who dare ask me questions, you're entirely unique."

"How so?"

"Most men ask after their souls."

Achamian could not speak. It seemed his heart could scarce beat, let alone his lungs breathe.

"With me," Kellhus continued, "the Tusk is rewritten, is rewritten, Akka." A long, ransacking look. "Do you understand? Or do you simply prefer to think yourself d.a.m.ned?" Akka." A long, ransacking look. "Do you understand? Or do you simply prefer to think yourself d.a.m.ned?"

Though he could muster no retort, Achamian knew.

He preferred.

During this period he cast the Cants of Calling no fewer than three times, though he was only able to report to Nautzera once. Apparently the old fool was having difficulty sleeping. The man was imperious and obsequious by turns, as though at once denying and recognizing the sudden shift in the balance of power between them. As a member of the Quorum, Nautzera formally possessed absolute authority over Achamian-he could even command his execution, if he thought the mission warranted such drastic measures. But in fact, the situation was quite the reverse. The Consult had been rediscovered, an Anasurimbor had returned, and the Second Apocalypse was nigh. These were the very things that gave their School meaning, the very mandate mandate from which they derived their name, and for the moment only one of their number-a discontent, no less-secured their connection to them. During one peevish and heady moment of their discussion, Achamian realized that in a sense he had become their de facto Grandmaster. from which they derived their name, and for the moment only one of their number-a discontent, no less-secured their connection to them. During one peevish and heady moment of their discussion, Achamian realized that in a sense he had become their de facto Grandmaster.

Another unsettling parallel.

As Achamian expected, the Mandate was in an uproar. Their agents around the Three Seas had been notified. The Quorum had organized an expedition that was set to leave for the Sacred Lands as soon as the ochala ochala winds began-a thought that filled Achamian with more than a little trepidation. But otherwise, they really had no idea as to how they should proceed. Two thousand years of preparation, it seemed, had left them utterly unprepared. winds began-a thought that filled Achamian with more than a little trepidation. But otherwise, they really had no idea as to how they should proceed. Two thousand years of preparation, it seemed, had left them utterly unprepared.

And it showed in Nautzera's relentless questions, which ranged from the asinine to the disconcertingly shrewd. How was it the Anasurimbor could see the skin-spies? Did he truly hail from Atrithau? Why did he continue marching against Shimeh? What had convinced Achamian of the man's divinity? How fared his old grudges? Whom did he serve?

To this last he answered, "Seswatha."

My brother.

He understood Nautzera's undertones well enough: the Quorum feared for his sanity, though given his new-found pre-eminence they had no doubt gilded their concerns in absolving explanations. Think of what the red wh.o.r.es did to him! Think of what he's suffered! Think of what the red wh.o.r.es did to him! Think of what he's suffered! Achamian knew how it worked. Even now they concocted rationales to relieve him of the burden they themselves coveted. Men forever argued their desires, forever made what the Near Antique logicians called the Inference to the Purse, which, they claimed, had secured more conclusions for more men than mere truth ever could. As the Cironji were fond of saying, if it jingled, then it was true. Achamian knew how it worked. Even now they concocted rationales to relieve him of the burden they themselves coveted. Men forever argued their desires, forever made what the Near Antique logicians called the Inference to the Purse, which, they claimed, had secured more conclusions for more men than mere truth ever could. As the Cironji were fond of saying, if it jingled, then it was true.

Despite his obvious suspicion, Nautzera also voiced many ostensibly heartening sentiments. We would have you know you're not alone in this, Akka. Your School stands with you We would have you know you're not alone in this, Akka. Your School stands with you. Only to follow them with sentiments such as: You've accomplished so much! Take pride, brother. Take pride! You've accomplished so much! Take pride, brother. Take pride!

Which was to say without saying, You've done enough You've done enough.

Then came the admonitions, which swiftly became recriminations. Beware the Spires Beware the Spires turned into turned into You were told to set aside your vengeance! You were told to set aside your vengeance! In the s.p.a.ce of breaths, In the s.p.a.ce of breaths, Take care in what you teach him Take care in what you teach him became became Many think you betray our School! Many think you betray our School!

When Achamian could tolerate no more, he finally said: The Warrior-Prophet has asked me to relay a message to the Quorum, Nautzera ... Would you hear it? The Warrior-Prophet has asked me to relay a message to the Quorum, Nautzera ... Would you hear it?

Achamian took the following silence for ethereal sputtering. They were powerless, and once again Nautzera had been reminded. Speak, Speak, the old sorcerer finally replied. the old sorcerer finally replied.

He says: "You are players in this war, nothing more. The balance remains precarious. Recall what it is you dream. Recall the ancient errors. Do not act out of conceit or ignorance."

Another pause. Then, That's it? That's it?

That is- What? Does he imply that he he possesses this war? Who is he compared with what we know, what we dream? possesses this war? Who is he compared with what we know, what we dream?

All men were misers, Achamian reflected. They differed only in the objects of their obsession.

He, Nautzera, is the Warrior-Prophet.

CHAPTER FIVE.

JOKTHA.

To indulge it is to breed it. To punish it is to feed it. Madness knows no bridle but the knife.

-SCYLVENDI PROVERB

When others speak, I hear naught but the squawking of parrots. But when I speak, it always seems to be the first time. Each man is the rule of the other, no matter how mad or vain.

-HATATIAN, EXHORTATIONS

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

Strange, this feeling. Curiously childlike, though when he racked his soul, Ikurei Conphas could find no resembling childhood memory. It was as though he'd been bruised beneath the skin, on his heart, or even his soul. A strange sense of fragility dogged his every look, his every word. He no longer trusted his face ... It was as though certain muscles had been removed.

"For some it is a defect carried from the womb ..."

What did that mean?